Sired by Stone

by Andrew Post

  “The money. Now.”

  “Date and time, pirate.”

  “Give me the damn spots.” Bottles smashed to the floor as he hoisted his arm. The gun barrel leveled with her eyes.

  Her threads yanked Coog, deflecting his aim.

  The bullet discharged with a crack, piercing the back of the leather seat far too close to her head.

  Before Coog could get his bearings, the gun already sweeping back, Nevele pulled the waitress aside and swung an uppercut into the air.

  Coog blinked, helpless as the threads under the table went tight with a twang, sending the table and the pirate airborne.

  The pirate sailed, kicking and flailing, among a loose cloud of curtain beads, beer bottles, and Geyser spots.

  The waitress, the poor dear, squealed, sent her tub crashing, and rushed for the exit.

  Cynoscions, frog-like Gworks, Mouflons, and gin-blossomed humans alike abandoned their drinks and made for the exit, climbing over one another.

  The pirate collided with the lazily turning ceiling fan and sprawled onto the bar—things in him cracking wetly—and finally rejoined the floor, gasping and wheezing.

  Stepping out of the booth, Nevele retracted her threads, dragging along the twisted mass of trousers. Tossing them aside, she strode over to Coog, who lay moaning in a heap. With a bump of her boot, Nevele sent Coog’s gun skidding.

  Coog rolled onto his back. His arm was bent at an irregular angle, and his now-bare legs bore a bleeding filigree of thin slices.

  “Date and time,” said Nevele.

  With his arm that wasn’t broken, he pawed at the collar of his jacket. A cheap pewter charm flopped onto his chest: a wrench with outstretched feathery wings. “Mechanized Goddess, rewire this one now, free him of malfunctions . . . Tesla the Everlasting Guide, Mage Oppenheimer, please.”

  Nevele hadn’t brought any weapons. Getting the go-ahead wave by Adeshka’s port security, after enduring the flood of frisk mice poured over her to let them sniff up her sleeves and into the depths of her pockets, had been sufficiently trying without attempting to sneak any artillery in. She glanced at Coog’s gun, which had skidded into the crimson glow of the instapawn, and considered picking it up, using it, but thought better.

  No one in the Geyser Royal Patrol, not even Clyde, the city’s steward, was allowed guns anymore. Flam, head of security, had begged Clyde to permit the guardhouse a cellar cache of rifles. Clyde had reluctantly agreed, but otherwise the city was back to swords and shields as its defense from contemporary weapons. Nevele’s own thoughts on it aside, even if she wasn’t in Geyser right now, she’d still follow the law as a representative of the city.

  Besides, I have my fabrick.

  She leveled a palm over Coog’s face, sending threads trickling down her fingertips, the ends feeling about his features. He spat and flung his head side to side, trying to finish his prayer to the Mechanized Goddess.

  Once in, she could feel his nasal cavity, the back of his throat. His tongue was both slimy and rough. When calling out to his goddess again, a saliva-slickened wad of threads ballooned between his lips instead.

  “Unless you want the last thing you ever hear to be squish . . .”

  Around the dark mass swelling his jaw wide: “Fruh dahs frum tuh-daw.”

  “Three days?”

  “Yuh, yuh.”

  “No tricks?” When she gave the strings a small twist, his nose started coming off. Not ripping like flesh but popping free as if it were molded flesh-tone silicone stuck on with wax. Which, apparently, it was.

  “Nuh, nuh, I swerr! Fruh dahs, pehse . . .”

  She eased the threads back. Coog gagged. His fake nose came free, looped on her strings through the nostril like a barbarian’s necklace. She tossed the prosthetic back, and he scrambled to jam it on, embarrassed. She restored herself, the various pale territories of her face creaking as everything tightened into place again.

  Stepping over him, mind reeling—Three days till the attack!—she picked up the spots scattered among the broken glass and spilled beer. Once she’d pocketed them, she walked toward the exit but stopped in the open doorway.

  “Please, I told you everything.” Coog attempted to get up using his broken arm. Wailing, he fell back, clutching his Z-shaped limb, gaze flicking to his gun across the room.

  Nevele bent to pick it up. “This?”

  “No, no, I—I wouldn’t’ve—”

  She turned, keeping herself between Coog and the instapawn, and pressed a button. The gun grew lighter and lighter in her hands until—flimp—it was gone. She hit another button. Ding.

  Transaction complete, she turned back around.

  Whimpering, Coog kicked away from her encroaching shadow. “Have mercy, have mercy, have—wha—?”

  Not doom but chark bars rained down on him. And, lastly, two pence in Adeshka coinage, flipped from

  Nevele’s thumb.

  Nevele whirled away, cloak rustling, and snapped her respirator on. As she stepped back into Adeshka’s neon stink fog, her voice went out muffled through the filters: “Keep the change.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Day One

  The Adventurer, Under Glass

  Stuffed into the itchy sea-foam green surcoat and trousers, knees wedged under his too-small desk, the Mouflon tried his best to seem interested. Really,

  he did.

  The rain-capped biddy on the other side rounded out her story, bringing it to a close after providing many, many facts. Throughout, she awaited his estimation of things, wet eyes expectant, spotty hands folded.

  Flam took a deep breath so that when he spoke, he wouldn’t sound incredibly bored. Which he was. With not only this particular case but all the ones preceding and, likely, following.

  Having peace in Geyser was great, sure, but he missed excitement. Once the city had gotten back on its feet and dusted itself off, the natural, finicky, fidgety way of folk, when happy, returned. Appointed as Flam—Sir Flam, he kept forgetting—head officer of the Geyser Royal Patrol, he was expecting to kick down doors, saying things like, “It’s a long stint in the dungeon for you, bucko.” But no. It was all—

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  “Forgive me, ma’am,” he said, sitting up, widening his eyes as if that’d lasso his attention. “If you wouldn’t mind, could you repeat—?”

  “I said what’re you going to do about this?”

  “We’ll find whoever’s stealing your newspaper, ma’am.” He thumped a fist on his desk. “Rest assured, we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “Newspapers? My neighbor is poisoning my—”

  “Shite, that’s right. You’re the one with the plant murderer.”

  “Not just plants. She’s poisoning my divinnean orchids, Mr. Flam. And I should hope you’d remember; I’ve told you only a moment ago! I’ve had my little darlings for forty-three years, and they’ve bloomed every spring except this, even surviving while Ralph and I were sent away with everyone last year, poor things going unwatered that entire time. Which leads me to believe there can be no other explanation. That wrathful crone is poisoning them. I just don’t understand why. I’m a good neighbor. I wave when I see her out. I always make sure when Ralph clips the hedge he doesn’t leave any trimmings on her side of the property line. I, I, I don’t know what to do. It’s positively killing me.”

  Wanna know what’s positively killing me? You, you paranoid old busybody. Flam was this close to saying it. Honest. But remembering stilled his lips: This is my job. Clyde gave it to me because he thought me capable. I shouldn’t let him down.

  But—

  Flam could hear rain outside. Between the steady trickle, world-shaking thunder boomed. Springtime on Gleese, what a thing. Warm one day, brisk and blustery the next—

  “Not even now.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Not even now you’re listening to me. You call yourself a member of the Royal Patrol?”

  “I’m new.”

&nb
sp; “I remember it from the papers. You were hired nearly a year ago!”

  Flam propped his chin on a fist. “I thought someone was stealing your newspapers.”

  She shot to her feet. “That wasn’t me!”

  As she stamped away, Flam didn’t chase her or grovel, just let her go.

  For a second, he caught the scent. Never did Meech send a better gift than the smell of rain. The door closed, shutting out the sounds and marvelous aroma.

  Face mooshed on his palm, Sir Flam sighed.

  “That went well.” Constable Nula Quartermain sat at her adjacent desk, her uniform the same as his, except flattering.

  “I can’t focus today.” He looked at her hair, the color of caramel; her complexion, suns-kissed. This day or any other, really, with you sitting there, so perfect.

  “It’s pretty dead. Could punch out early,” she suggested, grinning.

  “Yeah, sure. How do you think that’d look? Me, head officer, playing hooky.” He added, “And feet off the desk.”

  A lot of their friendship, Flam suspected, was forged simply by spending the long hours together. He often wondered if he and Nula would be chums if they weren’t coworkers. But since he scarcely saw his other friends anymore, maybe he’d just have to adjust the definition of friendship as he understood it.

  Nula dropped her boots back onto the floor but kept her arms clasped behind her head. “You’re friends with the steward, right?”

  “So?”

  “I dunno.” Shrug. “Pull some strings.”

  “Even with permission to do it, if the people saw me shirking my duties, I’d be written off as no better than our most recent king.” Pitka Gorett: anyone who spoke it would spit out the taste at once. The traitorous old prick.

  Flam snuck a peek at Nula, suspecting she’d be making puppy eyes.

  She was.

  He laughed, trying to pretend it didn’t affect him much. “All right, all right, we can’t cut the whole day, but how’s about an early lunch?”

  Nula raised a fist and took on a deep voice. “The laziness is communicable, indeed!”

  They strolled First Circle Street, then up to Second and Third, where there were some bistros Nula liked. She suggested they stop in one because, according to her, if Flam hadn’t ever tried their griddle cakes, he hadn’t lived.

  She was right. The cakes were amazing, especially with the crag-sugar syrup.

  She didn’t join him with a plate of her own, claiming she’d just eat at her desk and preferred people watching to plate watching. “But go right on ahead. Cheers.”

  Afterward they went up Fourth Circle, into the artists’ ward, agreeing they were just taking the long way back. Down the cobblestone lanes, they toured the elevated city’s circular fringe, perusing sediment stone sculptures, knickknacks, and paintings behind leaded storefront windows.

  As they sauntered, Nula spoke of her time in the refugee camp, how she’d been scared witless those six months with gangs bullying people out of their rations, how the guardsmen from Adeshka didn’t care if you were on your deathbed but only allowed a doc in if you were leaving messy blood trails. “That’s why I enlisted the minute I got back. Kind of worked out. There was a whole slew of vacancies after you, Clyde, and Nevele gave Gorett’s men the boot.”

  “Don’t forget about Rohm.”

  “And Rohm, yes, of course.” Nula smiled that perfect smile.

  “So this marks, what, three months you’ve been out of training and officially on the job?” He knew precisely how long it’d been since she’d first walked into the station house, how her hand felt in his when they shook.

  “Yep, month three as a full-fledged guardswoman—kitted, badged, and everything.”

  “And how’s it going?”

  “Well, besides the monotony, which is considerable, and the complaints about how someone’s neighbor’s lawn has grown to an unspeakable two inches, I like the guy I sit next to.”

  “George? Yeah, he is quite the handsome bloke, isn’t he?” Flam meant Constable George, who often smelled like onions.

  She elbowed him, and they shared a chuckle.

  Autos passed them by, seagulls wheeled overhead, the gentle hum of a city at work enveloping them. The gray sky promised more rain. Add the pretty coworker at his side, and Flam was enjoying himself.

  They stopped halfway across one of the pedestrian bridges at the peak of the mossy stone arch, admiring the city’s namesake in the town square. You could time it: every fifteen minutes the geyser would give a little puff—and a moment later, the mist dappled. Flam closed his eyes, droplets sprinkling his muzzle. Maybe there wasn’t any true adventuring in his future right now, but at least he was outside. Outside, away from desks and uncomfortable, creaky chairs and all that stupid soul-sapping paperwork.

  Apparently Nula didn’t like the mist as much. She stepped back under the bridge’s awning, blinking a lot and frowning. “So what’re the others up to now?” Nula said from back there.

  “Clyde and Nevele?”

  “Yeah. Well, I know Nevele’s got that seamstress shop down the way there, but ever since they announced their engagement and had that big party at the palace, it’s closed every time I go past.”

  “Couldn’t say. They don’t tell me much.”

  “But aren’t they your friends?”

  “Aye, but doesn’t mean they tell me anything.”

  “Do I need to remind you what position you hold?”

  Wow. Serious. A rare turn for Nula. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re head of the Geyser Royal Patrol, Flam. Sir Flam. No one’s been called sir anything around here in years. You should be up there, alongside them.” She pointed toward the palace. The sand-colored towers peeked between buildings and the drifting fog. He must’ve been making a face, because she was quick to add, “I didn’t mean anything by it. You do fine at your job.”

  “Yeah.” He leaned on the railing. In the rippling water, he could see his reflection staring up at him hangdog, wobbly and indistinct at the edges. He spat, and the foamy blot struck his mirrored self dead in the eye, scattering him into a chaos of colors: a frail creature. “I’m rather an expert on doing fine.”

  “I’m just trying to encourage you,” she said, at his side now. She put a hand on his thick arm, ruffling the tawny fur.

  She’s just being nice. Don’t take it as anything more.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You’re right, though.” His gaze met Nula’s eyes, which sparkled when the suns’ rays snuck out from the thunderheads, flashing warmly. “You’re absolutely right. What’re Clyde and Nevele doing that I can’t?”

  “I thought you said you didn’t know what they were doing.” Her fingertips still wiggled on his arm, a delicate dance.

  “I mean, I do . . . in a way. They don’t really fill me in on any details. They probably think I’m too much a git to understand their cloak-and-dagger business.”

  “Cloak-and-dagger business, as in going after Pitka Gorett and”—she glanced around—“the Odium?”

  “Well, not going after them, exactly, but . . . how’d Pasty put it?” He snapped his fingers. “‘Taking preventative measures.’ I mean, he intends to stick to what he told everyone the day you all got back, about not instigating a fight, but they’d try to prevent an attack if possible.”

  “How?”

  He turned to Nula.

  “What?” she said, smiling uncomfortably, tucking a strand of hair behind an ear.

  “Aiming to take my job?” He was only half teasing.

  “No,” she said, eyes going wide. “No, no, not at all. I just find it fascinating since what you and I do is, well, really bloody boring. They’re out there, going after the baddies. It’s so courageous. Exciting. I mean, you said it yourself: cloak-and-dagger. What phrase in the world is cooler than that?”

  “Yeah . . .” If not cool, at least enviable.

  When thunder shook their bones, they hurried back towar
d the station house.

  “What?” he said. “Don’t you think what we do is courageous?”

  She laughed. It was a good laugh, big and honest. “Oh, you were serious? Well, no, not exactly. Maybe it will be the day we finally get a lead on the despicable turd who’s stealing people’s morning editions of the Geyser Gazette.”

  “Got that one too, did you?” Flam chortled.

  When the downpour started, darkening the town square’s flagstones, they sprinted across. Nula’s strides were long and exact, clearing puddles effortlessly, silently.

  Once back at the door, though, Flam couldn’t help but take a second at the top of the steps. It’d been a good break, a nice spell from the tedium, but it’d done little to quell his adventure-starved spirit.

  With rain dripping from his horns, he looked out toward Jagged Bay and the sweeping dead landscape of Lakebed on the other side. He’d heard, secondhand from Clyde and Nevele’s maid, Miss Selby, that Clyde was heading there. Surprised at the news, he’d gone to play cards by himself that night. Usurp was better with two players, but a solitary game was possible—if markedly less fun.

  “Flam, you’re going to get soaked,” Nula said, halfway inside.

  As much as Sir Flam wanted to get on a ferry and barrel toward the mountains and the desert beyond, he returned to his tiny desk and chair.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sand-Swept Rumors

  For a moment the Sequestered Son flew. Beneath his buggy’s wheels, the dunes rose and fell. The geography here was rippled as if the Lakebed had been shaped by a giant’s sneeze. Clyde Pyne was new to driving but had learned after bottoming out a few times that he had to accelerate, not ease off, before racing up the yellow hills.

  With the next, he was ready. When the engine began to struggle, he shifted, and it roared. The buggy took to the air for a thrilling, weightless moment. This landing was much better. With a flatter stretch lying ahead, he stomped the gas and held it.

  Spotting a rickety lean-to—probably a boathouse when Angler’s Lake had water in it—he urged the buggy over, feeling like not its pilot but merely living cargo murmuring pleas.