by J. S. Morin
Chipmunk looked over the runes. They were a series of straight-ish scratches where they needed to curve, and weren’t very deep or uniform.
“The others look like this?” she demanded.
“Yah-huh,” the cobbler replied with a nod.
Chipmunk snatched the awl from his hand and held it between her teeth. “Go fine ‘nother,” she mumbled as she hopped off to the next pylon. The awl tasted of steel and leatherworking oils and sweat. She wanted to keep her lips off it but she couldn’t risk the time lost if it fell from a toothy grip as she tried to run on crutches.
The pylon at the mid fore sported a complete set of shoddily-scratched runes. Chipmunk leaned in close, even pulling her spectacles up to get a detailed view. Definitely not touching. Runes were more than a shape to fool the eye, they were conduits of aether. There were places where lines didn’t touch in some runes, but only where they were damned well meant not to touch. A cluster of scratches was no more a functioning rune than a jumble of wire scraps was a spark circuit.
Chipmunk put her spectacles back down and leaned against the wall for support. Her crutches fell to the floor with a pair of clangs. She needed both hands to work the awl as she scratched in among the cobbler’s runes, connecting the mass of lines into working runes. She heard shots fired all the while she worked, both the Ruttanian repeater-rifles and her own troops’ Tinker-made weapons. She hoped there was coil gun fire as well, but there was no way for her to hear the quieter weapons through the walls of the Jennai, let alone over the firing of the black-powder weapons.
How long she worked, perhaps half an hour, perhaps a handful of minutes. It was the close, hands-on work in which she loved to lose herself. The tool was ill-suited to the job, and the circumstances manic, but there was a meticulousness that drew her into the minutiae and let her block out the distractions around her.
There. Finished.
It took several blinks to get her eyes to stop trying to focus in tight on the tiniest of scratches and take in the runes as a whole. A change in the feel of the floor plates told her that they were airborne—they likely had been for some time. Somehow she had failed to take note as the ship listed heavily to port. The shift had leaned her into the wall she was working on, else she might have been thrown to the floor by the change in altitude. Sosha’s runes must have been in better shape.
Time to right this ship.
Chipmunk pressed her hand to the runes and drew in aether. The clean, crisp feel that washed into her brought with it a foreboding memory of the last time she had delved into sorcery. This time, however, she kept no aether stored inside her. As it came in, she poured the aether into the rune. The metal of the ship groaned in protest as the load upon it grew, as the pylon tried to float up, pushing against the vacuum tank and pulling on the gondola.
It wasn’t until much later in the day, when her troops and officer had all reported in, that she learned her first great lesson about airship combat: altitude is victory. Get enough air beneath you, and your adversary can’t get a line of fire on you because of the bulk of their own vacuum tank getting in the way.
By nightfall, they were on the ground again, salvaging the enemy airship, repairing their own, and continuing Chipmunk’s modifications. The pocketclock was wound and ticking; the Ruttanians knew where they were.
Chapter 9
“If I had invented politicians, I’d have scrapped them after the first prototype as a flawed idea.” –Kezudkan Graniteson
The Eversall Civic Auditorium was a structure meant to echo. Its vaulted ceiling and bare stone surfaces were expertly crafted to spread sounds from the front of the chamber to all those in attendance. Despite its name, it was intended for public government proceedings, not theater performances—though Kezudkan sourly conflated the two when it came to politics.
The barrister at Kezudkan’s side was a model of the profession, with a beard combed, curled, and dyed boot-polish black. His daruu solicitor sat on the far side of the witness table, flanking the barrister. Dunmurok had advised Kezudkan since they were both young men, and his advice had included hiring a strop-sharp kuduk to speak in front of the city council.
The auditorium held quite a crowd. The galleries were only ever filled when scandalous trials were conducted. Murderers, traitors, and corrupted officials had the masses slavering for justice. An investigative hearing into a matter that faded from the newspaper headlines over a month ago was only enough to pique the idle minds of a few citizens, and then only because of the bizarre circumstances involved.
Of the nine council members seated at the head of the room, the centermost spoke. “Kezudkan Graniteson, this hearing has been convened to unpuzzle the origins of what has come to be known as the Great Eversall Revolt. I would first like to convey this council’s disappointment at the tardy and lackadaisical manner in which you have chosen to treat our summons. While I have every intention of delving to the bottommost shaft of this affair, you have complicated matters needlessly by your delays.”
The barrister stood. “Lady Chief Councilor, please accept my client’s contrition for the delay in appearing before this council. Mr. Graniteson was away from Eversall at the time of the incident, attending to the health of his sister. As he was not a witness to the preceding events, it is very likely that Eversall’s investigators have more knowledge of the events in question than my client. However, he is here of his own free will and eager to provide answers to any questions, however insignificant a help they may be.”
Kezudkan glanced behind the back of his barrister, and caught Dunmurok’s eye. The daruu solicitor gave a nearly imperceptible nod that said: I told you he was good.
The chief councilor peered down at Kezudkan through gold-rimmed spectacles. “Does the witness wish to make a preliminary statement?”
“My client has no preliminary statement,” the barrister replied.
Chief Councilor Elaura Korsger nodded an acknowledgement and leafed through the documents in front of her. She perused one of them briskly, then leaned forward and turned to one of her colleagues. “Councilor Derrath, proceed with the inquiry.”
At the far end of the raised desk behind which all the councilors sat, a grey-bearded kuduk took up a sheaf of papers and cleared his throat. “To begin, Mr. Graniteson, let us clear up a few details ...”
The inquiry began with the chief councilor outlining trivial details about Kezudkan personally: his birth date, parentage, academic and professional credentials, and the nature of his varied business concerns. Then another of the councilors took over and spent the rest of the morning reading into evidence the official accounts of the slave escape, the investigation of the Graniteson Estate, and the subsequent actions of the human rebels who had presumably risen in the wake of the escape. The barrister objected to the latter, saying that there was no conclusive evidence that the upswing in rebel activity was tied to the Eversall Revolt—he tactfully left the “Great” off the beginning, which Kezudkan appreciated—and the objection was sustained.
At least I’m not getting the whole muddy rebellion lumped down on my shoulders.
The inquiry proceeded to matters of property and structural damage throughout Eversall. The numbers were staggering, likely inflated of course by citizens looking to profit from the tide of insurance claims, but staggering nonetheless. The barrister stood time and again to raise objections of relevance, given that Kezudkan was not responsible for the behavior of escaped slaves, citing Article IV, section 8a of the Slave Code. Whatever he was paying the barrister was a pittance compared to the expense that would come of having every insurer in Eversall fall on him like a swarm of rats to cover their losses. The kuduk barrister was like a champion from the ancient days of trial by combat, taking up his lord’s banner to defend Kezudkan against all slander.
That lofty comparison screeched off the rails as the subject shifted to Kezudkan’s personal dealings.
A councilwoman named Gurta Glondreigh had taken over, the fourth councilor to have a tur
n at the questioning. “Our investigations have revealed, Mr. Graniteson, that you have incurred a substantial debt. Additionally, we have obtained records from Slave Welfare indicating that you had an unusual number of slaves present in your home.”
The barrister rose, popping up like a spring-box puppet to attack all statements the council made. “Lady Councilor, if you please, my client’s temporary financial encumbrance was not a burden upon the household. My client is accustomed to a certain quality of living that requires a robust staff of slaves. The sheer quantity of humans my client owned may have made it statistically more likely that one would carry the seeds of rebellion within its head, but you cannot fault a man for living in a style to which had become his habit.”
“I can if the debt was secured against the value of those slaves,” Councilor Glondreigh replied. The barrister’s head snapped around to glare at Kezudkan. There was a murmuring in the gallery of the auditorium. The sort of kuduk who came to watch dry legal proceedings was the same sort who found financial malfeasance titillating.
“I would ask for a short recess, so I might consult with my client,” the barrister said.
“Denied. We’ve tapped all around the vein with our hammers, I will not adjourn the proceedings the instant we strike ore. Mr. Graniteson, if you have not fully informed your legal counsel in regards to your finances, I would ask that you answer these next few questions personally.” Councilor Glondreigh ignored the barrister and focused her full attention on Kezudkan.
“Lady Councilor—” Kezudkan began.
“Stand when you address the council, Mr. Graniteson.”
Kezudkan leaned on his cane and levered himself to his feet. He had been sitting far too long and far too still. His knees and hips ground like millstones as he straightened to his full height. “Lady Councilor, if you wished to plumb the deepest corners of my financial dealings, you should have summoned my accountant to the inquiry.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Graniteson,” Councilor Glondreigh said in a patronizing lilt. “We’ve spoken to the accountant listed on a number of your official filings. The poor gentleman was unaware that you were daruu. He had only corresponded infrequently with you, and his major dealings with you involved checking sums in ledgers delivered by your innumerable slaves. I rather suspect that you know every bog and cubby of your finances. How deep is your personal debt?”
Kezudkan held up an empty palm. “Without ledgers in front of me?” he scoffed. Finding nothing but stern faces among the councilors, he knew he had to venture a guess. “Seven, perhaps eight hundred thousand tenar.” He took a few pacing steps to limber his joints as the gallery gasped.
“And the total value of the slaves in your estate, prior to the revolt?” Councilor Glondreigh asked.
“Triple that, at the least!” Kezudkan exclaimed, turning to shake his cane at the councilor.
Councilor Glondreigh laced her fingers in front of her. “Mr. Graniteson, do not test the council’s patience. We have the records for each of your slaves from the files at Slave Welfare.”
“Then what the quakes are you asking me for?” Kezudkan snapped. “Market prices, finding the right buyer, slave prices aren’t so simple as Slave Welfare would make it appear. They need a number for the bookkeeping, but those aren’t numbers a banker would care about.”
“Are you an expert in the buying and selling of humans, then, Mr. Graniteson? You think yours were worth well more than the amount obtained by summing the individual values from Slave Welfare.”
Kezudkan fought back the urge to shout that Erefan had been worth more than all his debts combined, with change to build a new wing on the estate. Instead he replied, “I’ve been to enough auctions to know my way around a sale.”
“Very well, Mr. Graniteson. Let the record show that the witness disputes claims that his assets were insufficient to cover his debts, but does not deny that the collateral for his debt was his household staff of humans, which has now conveniently disappeared via revolt.”
The Chief Councilor spoke up. “Are there any further questions you’d like to ask, Councilor Glondreigh?”
“No, there are not.”
Kezudkan pivoted and aimed himself for the comfort of a low, stone seat beside his barrister, but a voice from the council stopped him. “One moment, Mr. Graniteson. I have another topic which I rather suspect your counsel will have no knowledge of.”
The barrister popped up. “Objection, Chief Councilor. Councilor Oerteron is presupposing.”
“Very well, then,” Councilor Oerteron replied, acceding to the objection before the chief councilor could rule. “Would you care to explain what Mr. Graniteson was doing with the following items ...” The councilor went on to list the entire contents of a thunderail car that Kezudkan had hired, the switches, the relays, the miles upon miles of copper wire, the enormous quantity of lodestone. Kezudkan found it at once both fascinating and appalling that they had such a detailed inventory when he had gone to considerable expense not to have those items appear on any official list.
The barrister listened with glazed eyes and a posture that showed more patience than attentiveness. “My client is a hobbyist after a grand fashion. The materials you mentioned were for the construction of scientific equipment whose purpose and fabrication are beyond my layman’s understanding.”
“Why then,” Councilor Oerteron asked, “are the records of these purchases falsified at every point along their travels? I prosecuted the Ten Banks debacle some years back, and I don’t recall their machinations being so elaborate as Mr. Graniteson’s.”
“I believe my client was merely taking excessive precaution against—”
“Sit down, young man,” Kezudkan said with a sigh. He took his cane and gently prodded the barrister back down into his seat before using it to rise once again. “Well played, Councilor, well played. I give up my charade. I had hoped to keep my invention bottled up a while longer, but you’ll have it out of me in the dungeons, I’m sure, if I don’t lay bare the recesses of my affairs before you.”
The chief councilor spoke up. “We no longer have dungeons in the manner you—”
Kezudkan’s cane slammed against the edge of the councilors’ desk, stunning the chief councilor into silence.
“If you wish me to spill forth the dregs of my soul, kindly chew on your beard while I do so,” Kezudkan said, despite the fact that Chief Councilor Elaura Korsger could no more grow a beard than he could. He cleared his throat and continued, sauntering up and down the length of the bench. “While my well-meaning barrister chipped at the surface, he underestimates me more egregiously than this council does. Science is a field where you may prove your theory if ten men can all solve a math problem the same way. I am a bit of a tinker myself. I like to see things work. When I was a boy, there was no spark, except what came from sky-storms or scuffing feet upon a deep pile rug. I watched its rise, saw its potential, and wanted to try my hand at it.”
Kezudkan spared a glance at the spectators as he turned at the end of one lap. They were hanging on his every word. Considering all that he was about to lose, they ought to be. “As I advance in years, I find myself less tolerant of the laborious aspects of invention. I found a human, some years back—a freeman—and conspired to force him into selling himself to me. Not to bore you with the details of how, but this human was one I had to have. He had a tinker’s mind and endless energy. His name is Erefan—you’ll find it in your records there—the finest human I’ve ever known. He built me anything I asked him for, and half the time I didn’t even have to tell him how. I paid a barroom ditty for him and he’s worth a symphony. As years went by and my family moved away or died off, he became the only voice in my estate worth hearing. Vile as it may seem to you, I grew friendly with this Erefan, and we spoke often. Together, we designed and built the most marvelous machine that Korr has ever seen.”
“Where is this going, Mr. Graniteson?” Councilor Oerteron asked.
“Councilor, you wished to know what I was
doing with those materials? Why I kept the shipments secretive?” Kezudkan asked. The councilor nodded. “The obvious answer is that the materials were for the machine I mentioned. The subtle answer is that this machine required more spark than any one man has likely ever had need of. It was simply too much for the civic spark to provide. I knew General Spark Services would have been pulling their beards out if I had set up a personal dynamo the size I needed, so I took great pains to disguise the shipment, especially the lodestone.”
“Are you telling us that the destruction of the lower three floors of your estate were the result of this machine you built?” Chief Councilor Korsger asked.
“No, not that,” Kezudkan replied. He took a few paces for a dramatic pause, the clopping of his cane on the stone floor the only sound in the chamber. “No, I am fairly certain my slave Erefan used my machine to gather an army, and used explosives to destroy it so that I couldn’t use it to track him down. You see, my machine permits instant travel to or from anywhere.” There were gasps and muttering, not just among the spectators, but between the council members as well.
“Order! Order!” Chief Councilor Korsger shouted, banging a gavel to draw attention back to the front of the chamber. “Mr. Graniteson, if I understand correctly, you are claiming that your slave commandeered an experimental device of vast potential utility and used it to rally an army from across Korr? How is it that this slave was allowed unsupervised access to such a dangerous piece of equipment?”
Kezudkan turned his back to the council as he retrieved a mug of water from the witness table. Oration was dry work. “The crazed rat-eater worked twenty hours a day on the thing. Had to boot him out on holiday to get him to stop, and lock the estate doors behind him. Humans are obsessive creatures; terribly useful trait if you find a good task for it.”
The barrister stood. “I must insist that my client refrain from answering any further questions, on the grounds—Mmph.”
