by Dave Butler
“Why do you talk like that, anyway? I mean, are you not allowed to say your father’s name?”
“That’s not the right way to do things, saying too many names, is it?” Aldrix licked his fingers. “It might tell somebody outside too much, and that’s no good. A dwarf keeps his head down.”
Keeping his head down sounded pretty good to Charlie. “And…a certain dwarf who is…uh, married, I guess, to a certain dwarf man who is…uh, not your father…”
Aldrix nodded. “A certain dwarf who is my mother’s sister.”
“Yes. What was she doing? You know, dancing around the wagons.”
Aldrix threw the bone into the trees. “You’re not one of us, Charlie. But I do like you.”
Then he crawled out from under the wagon and joined his family at the fire.
The dwarfs ate mostly in silence, and when they spoke, it was in the guttural language Charlie didn’t understand. They were a folk, weren’t they? Not only was Charlie not part of their folk, but he was a tool. A beast of burden.
He watched the dwarfs and the light glinting off their cats’ eyes in the forest until he started to twitch.
Charlie opened his eyes in the morning to find that he was no longer underneath Syzigon’s wagon. All three wagons had been pulled forward and now waited in a line, ready to depart.
Charlie stood.
“A decision has been made,” Syzigon announced. “We’re taking you to the Old Man.”
Charlie nodded. He didn’t want to go see the Old Man. He didn’t want to find out who the Old Man was. He wanted to stop being used like a pack animal. He wished he had asked Lloyd Shankin for help, mad though the man might have been. He wanted to find his friends and escape.
“Have you seen a flyer in the last two days?” he asked. “A glider, just big enough for a couple of lads? With a pixie, maybe?”
Syzigon shot Charlie a hard stare.
Charlie shrugged and backed down. It had been worth an attempt. He had spent an awful lot of time unconscious. How else could he know what he’d missed?
“I’ve wound you a little more than I did yesterday,” Syzigon growled. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking anything of it. I got tired of winding you so much, and the forest is too big for you to get anywhere on your own.”
Atzick jerked a thumb at his own chest and winked at Charlie. “He does the same thing to me, too, Harry.”
Being called Harry slightly spoiled what was otherwise a pretty good joke.
At that moment, Charlie heard a loud grinding sound. It came from behind them, the east. Then a whistle blew—too-whoo—and a machine rolled into view.
It barreled up the track on enormous India rubber tyres, and it was wide enough to flatten trees on both sides of the track. From its front rose a boxy room with glass windows on all sides. Behind the room stretched a flat deck like the deck of a ship.
Too-whoo!
A man stood inside the boxy room. He appeared to have his hands on a ship’s wheel, and as he came into sight, he turned the wheel and pulled a lever down.
The machine shuddered slowly to a halt, ten feet from Syzigon and Charlie. The donkeys brayed, snorted, and scooted sideways to try to get a few feet farther from the vehicle. Bill wept like a baby, and Bad Luck John yanked out his tether and hobbled into the trees.
The man behind the ship’s wheel emerged. He was tall and rotund, and he was dressed in a top hat, a frock coat, and high boots, all a dark, glossy green that made him look a little like a fly. He had muttonchop side-whiskers and long hair, and when he removed his top hat to wave it in salute, his hair fluttered in the breeze.
“Hallooooo!” He stepped to the edge of his machine, onto a piece of the deck that jutted out from its main body, and there he threw a long switch. Steam jetted out from around the piece of deck on which he stood, and then it began to descend. Standing and waving his hat, the man rode this small platform down a chain to within six inches of ground level. When his platform stopped moving, he stepped to the ground.
“Hello.” Pulling his hat firmly over his ears, he made a beeline for Syzigon. “I’m looking for the dwarf who can get things done.”
“This isn’t your first time,” Syzigon answered. It sounded sort of like a question.
“I know the cat friends.” The man eyed the wagons, including the six dwarf faces staring coolly back at him. “My name is William T. Bowen. I’m looking for investors.”
Syzigon snorted. “Speculator.”
Bowen shook his head. “Incorporator.”
“Is there a difference?”
“You injure me. I want to talk to dwarfs, and specifically to dwarfs. Why? Because I think a dwarf is best positioned to understand the value of my invention. A dwarf is best able to know how my customer thinks, which means a dwarf is best suited for making a hefty profit by investing in my company on the ground floor.”
Syzigon snorted again. “You’ve got us wrong. It’s kobolds you want.”
And then Charlie saw the pin.
There it was, right in broad daylight, on the lapel of the man’s frock coat: a pin shaped like a cog. Just like the one the Sinister Man had worn in London—the symbol of the Iron Cog.
Charlie swallowed. At least he was still covered in layers of mud, chalk, and twigs. Hopefully he looked to this man like a really dirty dwarf. Trying not to attract any attention, he casually turned and walked away from Bowen, toward the wagons.
“Aren’t you tired of feeding and grooming those donkeys, though?” William T. Bowen pointed at Bad Luck John, who was attempting to hide behind a thick evergreen. Syzigon laughed, and Charlie wondered if he was thinking about feeding and grooming Charlie. “You’ll be able to walk away from all that. Live cleaner, travel cheaper, move faster. Thanks to the power of steam.”
“What’s the T stand for?” Syzigon asked. “Thick?”
Charlie had the hindmost wagon between him and the Iron Cog man, and he turned and leaned against its wooden side.
“Terrific!” Bowen shot back. “And thoughtful! And timely!”
“You have an accommodating mother.”
“I chose the name myself.” Bowen laughed. “As I chose my line of business, and my partners, and my future! I tell you, it’s a bright road ahead, my friend. Dwarfs leaving their donkeys behind and joining the nineteenth century…maybe even leading us into the twentieth. You and that cute little certain dwarf of yours riding in style around the countryside in a conveyance capable of maintaining speeds of twenty miles per hour! More than that, you won’t need bridges anymore, because, thanks to the Bowen Buoyancy System—patent pending—you’ll float right across any river too deep to drive through.”
Syzigon snorted.
“As a shareholder, you’ll be able to take your dividend in kind. That’s right, you’ll be able to have a steam-truck yourself, right off the line, as merely the first fruits of your shrewd investment in Bowen Steam and Power.” Charlie couldn’t see Bowen anymore, but he could hear his voice getting higher and higher pitched as he worked himself toward the climax of his appeal. “And the best part is, because you’re getting in now, you’ll buy at an astonishingly low share price.”
“I was waiting for this part.” Syzigon hooked his thumbs into his belt and stood with his feet planted apart. He looked as if a galloping horse couldn’t knock him over.
“Five pounds sterling, my friend. Five pounds sterling per share is all ownership of Bowen Steam and Power will cost you, with a minimum investment of one hundred shares.”
Charlie expected another snort, or for Syzigon to say something dismissive, but instead there was a long silence.
“I’d like to see inside,” Syzigon said.
“Step right this way.”
“Harry!”
Charlie hesitated. The Iron Cog had killed his father, murdered him right in front of Charlie only a few days ago, and now Syzigon was demanding Charlie accompany him aboard this steam-truck piloted by an Iron Cog man.
“Harry!”
Charlie had no choice. If he didn’t do what Syzigon wanted, the dwarf would simply refuse to wind his mainspring and leave Charlie alone in the forest. Charlie didn’t know whether he would rust or rot, but if no one ever saw him again, it didn’t really make a difference.
He jammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, looked down at his shoes, and shuffled out from behind the wagon. He felt tight, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, ready to punch someone or run away.
“There he is,” Syzigon muttered. “Harry, stay with the wagons.”
Charlie almost fell over in relief.
Syzigon whistled, and the three tassel-eared cats emerged from the forest. Syzigon followed William T. Bowen to the platform at the edge of the steam-truck. It wasn’t large enough to accommodate both men and the cats, so Bowen worked a lever at the bottom to send Syzigon and the cats up first. He squinted suspiciously at Charlie as he did it.
Charlie resisted an urge to run over and strike William T. Bowen in his big stomach. Had the speculator realized Charlie wasn’t a dwarf? Did his squinting mean that he recognized Charlie? But Bowen sent himself up the little elevating platform, and he and Syzigon disappeared.
The doors to the hindmost wagon opened, and Yellario stuck her head out. She looked around as if searching for something else, and then her gaze fell on Charlie. “Where is a certain dwarf?”
Charlie pointed at Bowen’s steam-truck. “A certain dwarf who is your husband is on that steam-truck. I think he’s considering whether he wants one.”
Yellario shook her head. “A certain other dwarf who is my son.”
“Oh!” Charlie looked around. “I don’t know. Is he not in the wagon?”
Yellario said something guttural and violent. “Would I ask you where he is if he were in the wagon, Donkey? He was playing with the sheyala! The cats!”
In the forest, then.
Charlie trotted a few steps into the woods. He was a little nervous as he did so, because he wasn’t sure how much his mainspring was wound. He saw no sign of the boy Aldrix.
He wished he were a tracker. Like the hunter Allan Quatermain in King Solomon’s Mines, which he’d read three times. If he were Allan Quatermain, he’d look at the ground and see clear signs of where Aldrix had gone and who he was with and exactly what the boy had eaten that day.
Instead he was Charlie Pondicherry. He looked at the ground and saw scuffed leaves and pine needles, and they told him exactly nothing.
He ventured deeper, trying to follow the scuff marks as far as they went into the forest and then come back. That was sort of like tracking, he thought. If he could cover the maximum possible area into which Aldrix might have gone, surely he’d find the boy.
But he didn’t.
And when he had covered the entire area in the woods in which the earth was disturbed, Charlie came back to the track and saw Syzigon and the three cats. The cats lay in a rough circle around the dwarf, licking the backs of their paws.
“So I’ve seen your steam-truck, Mr. Bowen,” Syzigon was saying, “and I understand why you like it. But let me tell you about three more Ts you may not have considered.”
Bowen’s smile continued to dominate his face, though the knuckles of his hands, holding his hat before him, were white. “Yes?”
“Tired,” Syzigon started. “As in, tired of the constant change. And tried. As in, I know my ways and I know they work, because not only are they my ways, they’re the ways of my father and his father and his father before him. This steam-truck”—he gestured vaguely—“it’ll be gone tomorrow, replaced by something else.”
“My dear sir—” Bowen tried to object.
“And lastly, trust. As in, I don’t trust your device and I don’t really trust you. I do business with friends and, earth and sky help me, if I were ever to buy shares in a joint-stock company”—Syzigon snorted—“it would be in the company of a friend. Not a stranger. Not you.”
Bowen opened his mouth, but Syzigon silenced him with an upraised hand.
“I see.” William T. Bowen quietly put his hat back on his head, nodded, turned, and left.
As the would-be incorporator put his steam-truck into gear and it rumbled forward, Yellario emerged again from the wagon. “Did you find the boy?” She looked at Charlie.
“No,” he admitted.
Syzigon’s head snapped up. “A certain dwarf my son?” He whistled sharply, and the cats sprang into action. They sniffed about in the forest where Charlie had been….
But they quickly left that patch of trees and circled around to where the steam-truck had idled. When they reached the spot, they stopped and mewed.
Charlie and the two dwarfs looked at the steam-truck vanishing into the trees ahead just in time to see the ladder up to its deck.
Syzigon gasped. “He’s on the steam-truck!”
Charlie sprinted after the steam-truck.
Only seconds later, he regretted it. Shouldn’t he have waited and asked Syzigon to wind his mainspring? At the best of times, he had no way of knowing how far he could go or how fast. Now he had to assume his mainspring was almost unwound.
So he ran efficiently. No turning his head to look back, no looking to either side—he just willed speed into his legs and rocketed after the retreating incorporator.
It must be a mistake. An accident. Aldrix had climbed into the back of the steam-truck by himself because the big, growling machine was exciting. If nothing criminal had happened, shouldn’t Mr. Bowen be happy to return the little boy?
The track grew narrower and twisted a little. Charlie expected Bowen to slow down so he could better negotiate the turns. Instead the man in the top hat accelerated. The steam-truck tore trees from the earth on either side of the track. It bounced several feet off the ground as it ran over the largest of the logs or caromed off the top of boulders too close to the path.
Bowen wasn’t slowing down. He knew he had the boy.
He wanted to have the boy.
Charlie came within reach, so he jumped. He grabbed the ladder, but the jump was a little more energetic than he’d intended, and he banged against the back of the truck.
He held very still, hoping no one had noticed.
After a few long seconds, he climbed the ladder. At the top, he peered over the deck to scout out the vehicle.
He saw the flat deck itself, which was a crosshatched brass sheet. Two pipes stuck out from it, angling away from the front of the steam-truck, one jetting out black smoke and the other steam. There were several large reach-in crates, apparently built into the surface, and the little house on the front, with its spoked and handled wheel. William T. Bowen stood at the wheel and steered, his bottle-green back turned to Charlie.
But no sign of Aldrix.
An open hatch in the surface of the deck suggested there were chambers inside the steam-truck’s body. Just as Charlie pulled himself up onto the deck to sneak toward the hatch, a head came out of it.
A head he knew.
The mustachioed, sneering head of the Sinister Man.
Charlie froze. He only knew a few things about the Sinister Man. He was French. He had been the leader of a group of thugs who had kidnapped Charlie’s bap for the Iron Cog. And Charlie’s bap had died fighting the Sinister Man in a carriage of the London Eye, an enormous leisure wheel, shot by another of the Frenchman’s thugs.
Bap had been shot, and then he’d fallen a great distance onto pavement.
The steam-truck hit a large rock, launching it several feet into the air. Bowen flexed his knees and rode out the bounce; the Sinister Man smacked his face against the deck and cursed.
Charlie fell.
He grabbed for the ladder. His fingers hurt as he stubbed them against metal, and again as the rungs rattled through his grip one after the other. He thought he was about to be left behind, but he caught the last rung in both hands.
His body slammed to the ground.
He wanted to cry out and he wanted to let go. He did neither b
ut held on to the ladder, gritted his teeth, and began the slow process of dragging himself back up. Rocks scraped him, sticks poked his skin, and dirt poured into his pockets by the shovelful. It felt like an hour before he managed to get hands and feet firmly on the ladder.
Now what?
He was unarmed. He was alone. And he might start to twitch at any second.
But Aldrix was unarmed and alone, too, and he was just a little boy, taken from his parents. He must be terrified, and he was almost certainly in danger.
Charlie climbed the ladder. At the top, he peered over and saw the Sinister Man and William T. Bowen standing in the wheelhouse, looking ahead. From behind, Bowen was a broad green wall and the Frenchman was a thin tower wrapped in a black cape. Charlie wasted no time. With a heave of his arms, he dragged himself onto the deck. He rolled as quietly as he could to his feet, crept forward, and dropped down the hatch.
“It’s true, they may not be carrying supplies. But if not, we can always use another litter of the mouse eaters in our service,” he heard Bowen say. “Better still if we don’t even have to pay these ones.” The words made no sense to Charlie, so he kept going.
He tumbled quickly down the stairs and found himself in a short hall with several doors. Light came from globes set into the walls that looked a little like gas sconces, but when Charlie squinted at one, he saw a tiny humanoid figure inside, winged and glowing. The little being burst into a flurry of activity and hummed faintly until Charlie backed away.
“Aldrix!” Charlie counted on the growling of the steam-truck itself and the sound of the countryside being churned into toothpicks and dust to cover his noise.
What was he doing? He had a mission, to get to Cader Idris and warn Caradog Pritchard that the Iron Cog was coming for him. Instead he was now sneaking aboard a vessel that appeared to belong to the Cog, to rescue one of the people who had been holding him prisoner.
He told himself that he was doing it because he had to. If he didn’t rescue the boy, Syzigon would let Charlie wind down and abandon him in the forest. But he knew in his heart it wasn’t true, even as he formulated the thought.
