by K. M. Tolan
“They all look intelligent, Paleen."
“But not as cute. He's tall too, almost your height."
The Cothra's hair was a damp tangle against a high brow and sharply cut cheekbones. His eyes gleamed with rapt fascination as he gave the ingot one last glance before leaving. Mikial almost regretted having to interrupt him. Paleen was correct. He was good looking.
“Paleen!” he greeted in a mellow tenor, upon entering their room through the steel doors. He wiped at his smooth face with a towel hanging on a metal wall rack adjacent to the doors. “Do you know what we have in there?"
Mikial's nostrils filled with the sweet scent of his perspiration as Paleen gave him a smug look. “Know what I have out here?"
He finally noticed her. “A Dathia! Wonderful. Mikial Haran, isn't it?"
“At your service ... perhaps."
“I'm Dalen Goss,” he said, spreading his hands in introduction. He pointed back to the shimmering metal within the forge. “We've been admiring some of your handiwork. Buried in the center of that tensa ingot is a fragment from one of those Minneran cannons you destroyed. New carbons, crystallized alignments. We're replicating its structure in the surrounding ingot.” He laughed and gave the window an exuberant rap with his hand. “What's happened is almost beyond belief! Almost a ten-fold increase in tensile strength!” He paused, his excited grin sobering. “Did Paleen explain everything to you?"
Mikial maintained her polite smile, not sure she understood half of what he had just said. “Just the insane parts. Something about flying a forbidden airsail over enemy territory."
Dalen glanced at the Ipper. “You mean she hasn't agreed?"
“Yet,” Paleen added hastily with a warning look toward Mikial.
“I agreed to listen,” Mikial said. “But please, not here. All this excess energy is unnerving."
“I have just the place,” the Dalen said with a confident nod. “Allow me a few moments to shower and get changed. You ladies can wait in the reception room if you wish."
* * * *
Dalen rejoined them in a lounge behind the reception area. He wore the formal cinnamon tunic and pants of his sect. His hair was neatly groomed. His brass belt buckle was the Cothra insignia, a wheel with four hammers for spokes. The buckle looked freshly polished. Mikial's hopes were raised that he might treat them to an early lunch at the market. She was in a mood to have her spirits lifted. Dalen seemed eager enough to oblige, offering them a ride in a carriage from the Cothra garages. Agreeing, the girls ordered their yhas to their respective homes, Mikial giving Kikia an affectionate pat on the rump to send it on its way.
Mikial's anticipation plummeted as Dalen headed north up
Valleyway Road instead. The sky port came into sight. The rows of huge green barns and mooring towers dwarfed the surrounding orchards at the northern tip of the valley. He took a side road behind the barns, pulling up before an obscure canvas hanger tucked back among the trees. He beckoned them inside like an artist at a private showing.
Pulling aside the tall canvas curtain that served as the hanger door, Mikial almost bumped into the bulbous white nose of an airsail. At least it bore a resemblance to an airsail, and a very large one at that.
“It's fashioned from composite fibers,” Dalen explained as Mikial edged around the teardrop fuselage for a better vantage point. “It's reinforced with a tensa spine. The wings too. Look at them, they're actually longer than the body."
Mikial's eyes fixed halfway down the wing at a nacelle whose slender cone tipped by a glimmering silver prop. The opposite wing was modified in similar fashion. An airsail with pretensions of becoming an airship. “You expect this to fly?"
“It's already flown three times,” Dalen said with a grin, as if expecting her remark. “Trouble is, it hasn't been flown far enough to prove itself."
She gave him a measured look. “Such as out to Minnera. Where are the batteries strapped? Underneath the belly, or do you hook up a wire between this thing and the nearest airship?"
“Inside.” He walked over to the nacelle nearest her and unlatched its hood. “Right here behind the engine."
Mikial stepped over and peered under the raised panel. “What? That gray bread box?” She looked across the engine at him. Her hunting eyes sensed not even the faintest flicker from inside the thing. “Dalen, you couldn't warm a glowstone with what's in here."
“Step back a moment. I'll engage the test circuit."
Glancing skeptically at Paleen, she obeyed. Her friend folded her arms in confident anticipation.
Mikial gasped as a surge of power flashed across her senses, blinding her to the aura of Dalen's body. It disappeared just as quickly.
“I assume you felt that,” he said, his slender eyebrows rising in amusement.
Mikial stared at the unobtrusive little box with new respect as he unhooked some wires and slid it forward to mate with the engine again.
“But there's nothing there now!"
Dalen pointed to each side of the battery. “It's a metallic crystal mesh with a polarized buffer ... and you're not understanding any of this, are you? Sorry."
“He gets like that,” Paleen said in a humoring tone, as Mikial gave her a bewildered look.
Dalen took a breath, holding out his hands as if he cupped something. “It's like two sponges, Mikial. Instead of water inside, they hold dormant energy. The trick is that each sponge holds a different kind of energy. A lot like those glands in your wrists.” He ran a finger between the imaginary sections. “I designed a, ah ... pump that draws the energy in from both sides and mixes it in just the right way. What gets squirted out is intensely powerful relative to the size of this battery."
“It sounds like something the Taqurls would have made,” Mikial said with an accusatory look as he shut the panel.
Dalen leaned across the engine with an impatient frown. “Let the Shandi argue that at my Judgment. Right now your sect needs help against the Minnerans just about as badly as I need someone to stand up for me. My sect can't defend me alone. But if the Datha agree that this plane will help against the Minnerans, Principal Kyian Sell and her Shandi just might think twice about making an example of me."
She shook her head. “You really did use Taqurl sciences, didn't you?"
He slapped his hand against the nacelle in frustration. “I used knowledge, Mikial. That's supposed to be free, or at least it should be. The Shandi Principal fears the past. I can understand that, but Kyian shouldn't use it to suppress our future as well."
Her fingers ran across the smooth wing. “You'd rather that past become our future?” Mikial gave him a direct look. “You want me to go against Shandi orders?” She pressed a hand against her chest. “Do you have any idea how much Shandi conditioning we in my sect receive? Whose sect do you think it was that caused Min Saja in the first place?"
Paleen tapped a propeller with her finger. “Mikial loves being a Dathia, especially the part about doing anything the Shandi say."
“My mother's a Shandi, remember,” Mikial replied, her eyes narrowing.
“She's not in Mental Studies. They're the ones who pull your strings."
“I can't allow this plane to fly if it's been impounded!"
“It's not exactly impounded,” Dalen explained. “Principal Kyian directed that the Cothra were to cease experiments with it until after my Judgment. She didn't say that some other sect shouldn't explore its potential.” He pointed a finger at her. “You're going to fly it. I'll be in the rear seat giving directions."
“Me? Fly this? Ask my Strike Leader. He's crazy enough. I'm not."
Dalen gestured to the narrow cockpit beneath its bubble canopy. “You think I could stuff a Datha in there? There're also weight and range ratios to consider. As big as you are, you're a lot smaller than any of your sect's males. You have combat experience. I wouldn't know what a military target was, even if it shot me."
“I'd have to talk to my commander at our Sewing tonight."
Dalen sho
ok his head. “He'll end up talking to the Shandi, and you know what they'll say. Can't you take some initiative, or did the Shandi condition that out of you, too?"
“Dalen, please,” Paleen interjected, moving to get between them. “I think you're about to test some of her conditioning right now.” She turned to Mikial. “Stop flattening your ears and listen! He's facing Judgment before the Tasur and Tasuria. You know what that means?"
“Kyian Sell will make an example out of him,” Mikial said grimly. “If that Shandi wants him punished, or even dead, she can be very convincing. Not that I think she's getting that extreme."
“Your sect can be equally convincing if shown the tactical advantages this offers,” Dalen said.
Mikial gave the air machine a long look. “Right now I doubt that there's anything along Minnera's border worth risking my neck over. Having to dodge rifle fire is one thing. Facing off with Kyian is likely to be worse."
“She's not saying no,” Paleen assured Dalen, steering Mikial toward the carriage outside.
“I'm not?” Mikial muttered as they got in.
“You're not. That way we can talk him into buying lunch, and maybe even dinner."
* * * *
Paleen's predictions proved correct on both counts, except that Mikial found herself alone with Dalen at Shadow Inn for an early dinner before her Sewing. Paleen had “forgotten” that part of her Keering ceremony involved staying overnight at Signal Point. Dalen proved to be an enjoyable host. One thing impressed her about him: Throughout the meal he never once asked her to reconsider his request for assistance. Trouble was, she should not have been eating with him at all. She should be reporting him instead. To make matters worse, Mikial found herself inviting him to the Sewing after he mentioned never having seen one. She hated the idea of going there alone.
* * * *
Her mother developed a sudden interest when Dalen picked
Mikial up in a carriage that evening. As Mikial had suggested, he wore casual clothes, though his loose shirt and pants were still in the cinnamon tones of his sect. He had pulled his hair away from his high brow and drawn it through a series of gold rings. Paleen indeed has picked a handsome one this time, Mikial noted to herself, directing Dalen toward the cross tunnel near the High Keep.
Dalen was quick to comment on the flowing black robe she wore. “Not exactly a standard combat uniform."
She patted the folded clothes beside her. “Brought those along for sewing. I'll be expected to show up in something else, for once.” Smiling, Mikial parted the cloth around her collar enough to let him see the glitter of her firestone necklace.
“You can dance?” he asked with mock surprise.
“Those three stones aren't there by accident,” she retorted as they entered the tunnel, the road illuminated by a string of overhead lights. “You're looking at the Holding's youngest Three Beat dancer.” Mikial gave him an evil grin. “I hope you can hold your beer as well as I can hold three beats. Parva serves only Black Bear tonight."
“Don't forget who does the brewing, Dathia. Wasn't aware you had a taste for that stuff."
“I'll develop one quickly enough,” she replied, her heart sinking. “We'll be remembering some of those who didn't make it back from Bramble Ravine. One of them died protecting me, Dalen. Not the kind of debt that's easy to repay.” Mikial looked at him. “You still want to come?"
“Somebody has to carry you back."
The ride continued with only the soft hum of the motor and the passing of other vehicles to interrupt the silence. Mikial directed Dalen up the road running south along the ridge of Shadow Canyon. Before long, the front lamps of the carriage reflected off a wall of massive ironwood trunks interposing themselves across the winding avenue. The familiar scents of lacquered wood helped calm Mikial's growing nervousness.
“Legend says these buildings were once part of the original stockade for Taqurl settlers,” Mikial tutored, as they passed through a set of iron gates leading into the Datha compound.
Dalen pressed down on the brake pedal, slowing the carriage as they passed dark ironwood columns supporting porticos of ivy-entwined red brick and heavy timber. Lamps, fashioned like massive torches, cast shadows deep inside the halls. “These buildings are where you went to school, right?"
Mikial's eyes widened. “Of course."
“There're still places in this Holding I haven't seen yet. I
don't know if Paleen told you, but I'm a recent immigrant from Kinset."
“Really? I wouldn't have guessed from the way you act."
Dalen laughed. “You mean the lack of arrogance?"
“Sorry,” she said with an apologetic smile. “It's just that Kinset seems to think itself the sole dispenser of culture just because Gile Tassomon was born there."
“The Great Tasur also started his reformation there,” he reminded. “Kinset might have been spared the destruction of Min Saja, but not the purgings when Gile forced the Taqurls down the path to becoming Qurls. It was like a second civil war, Mikial. Not everyone believed in him, you know."
“Kinset didn't have the added incentive of being burned out of their homes by vengeful Servants."
“That's because the Servants across Kinset were all slaughtered when Min Saja started. They did teach you that here, didn't they?"
“Look ahead across the courtyard to see how I was taught.” She pointed to the low ring of lights surrounding the Assembly Rotunda. “You'd go in there in the morning. You might be home by dinner, or not for a month. You never knew. Take a left by the fountain ahead and look for a long building—it can hold up to a High Strike if it has to. That's the Sewing Hall.” Mikial smiled. “Last time I went in there, I was only ten, and got chased out. ‘Not yet.’ That's what they shouted."
“It's the one lit up like a forge, right?"
“That's it. Just find a place to park if you can. You're not the only invited guest this evening, you know. I'm sure there'll be plenty of others to watch me make a fool of myself."
Dalen parked the carriage alongside the other similar modes of transportation, while yhas regarded them indifferently from a small clearing next to the road. “Don't mention that flying battery of yours to anyone,” she cautioned as he helped her from the carriage. “Bad enough you'll be surrounded by Datha, but the majority of women in there are going to be Shandi."
“They do have a penchant for your sect. Maybe I should dye my belt yellow too?"
“Just don't invite anyone for a flight, Dalen."
They passed between two ironwood columns at the entrance, Dalen pausing to admire the wrought iron dagger-and-wheel insignia that hung from a crossbeam. Opening the doors beneath the decoration, Mikial saw lamps of every size and color swing from the overhead rafters. Delicious smells of roasting meat blended with the rich tang of beer. To Mikial's right, a large plank of polished sheld formed a bar behind which sat barrels large enough to stand in up to her neck. Along the back wall, a feast of side dishes flanked a spattering haunch of a rock bear suspended over glowstones. The festive dresses of wives and lovers contrasted with the more somber black uniforms of her Strike.
“There!” Parva Conn roared from among a knot of Datha and their guests at the bar. “There's our prize!” Parva pulled at his white braid, his gray eyes widening in mock amazement. “Creation! She's found herself a Cothra!"
“It takes a Cothra,” Dalen retorted, surprising her with his boldness.
“Strike Leader, I would present Dalen Goss, a Cothra metallurgist,” she introduced as Parva quickly covered the distance between them. “I just met him,” Mikial added, with a warning look.
Parva clapped a large hand on Dalen's shoulder. “Just met him, eh?” Looking down, he gave Dalen an intimidating smile full of teeth. “Do you have any idea of the company you're keeping?” Parva's other arm wrapped around Mikial's waist. “This, my young Cothra, is an exquisitely rare jewel in our sect. A Dathia! Viciously beautiful and as short-tempered as they come. Precisely why we treasure
her, and the reason you're probably in over your head."
“And judging from her flat ears, you'll be the first to realize it, Parva!” a female voice called out behind him.
Laughing with the rest, Parva took a step back as Mikial favored him with a hiss. “Oh, and did I mention protective?” He reached out for her hand. “Come, Mikial. It's customary that you first pay your respects to our most honored guests.” Parva inclined his head to Dalen. “If you will excuse us a moment."
“What was that for?” she growled in a low voice as Parva led her off. “Trying to chase him away?"
“Yes,” came his matter-of-fact answer. Parva glanced back. “He isn't running. That's good ... so far."
“You'd be surprised at what he's capable of,” she muttered as Parva brought her to the bar. She felt the blood drain from her face. Eight Memories sat on the dark ginger wood, each figurine so lifelike that they seemed ready to talk about their lost lives. She barely recognized Feren Cloa among them. The blue checkerboard cloth of his shirt was tucked casually into a pair of old gray pants. He was sitting on a mossy stump with a fishing rod, his eyes half closed in satisfaction.
A short female in a mauve blouse and darker-hued dress came up beside Mikial. “That's how I remembered meeting him. Same old spot along the river. I really don't think he cared if he caught anything or not.” She pressed an empty redstone tankard into Mikial's hands as Mikial turned to face her. “I am Ninell Cloa, his wife. You are Mikial Haran, I assume."
“Yes,” Mikial said. She swallowed back her dread. “He ... your husband...” Ears flicking, Mikial shook her head, her eyes clouding with each twist of memory. “I ... I'm sorry I wasn't able to help him."
Ninell nodded with more understanding than Mikial found within herself. “I know. You both did your best, Dathia. I'm sure he returned to Creation quite happy that he saved a life through his sacrifice.” Her expression softened, unveiling a hint of the pain she bore. “Will you dance for him tonight?"
Mikial wiped at her eyes, unable to stop her streaming tears. “Yes. Yes, if I can stop this crying!"
