“Old Bertha is the oldest and crankiest of the Kaalipha’s generators,” Yaala replied.
The strange name for the machines rolled easily off her tongue. But she’d been in the pit for several years since her imprisonment as well as much of her childhood on a voluntary basis. Powwell couldn’t quite form the strange words without thinking.
“What can I do to help?” he asked. “I don’t know anything about the machines.” He’d been taught to squirt an oily liquid onto various moving parts and wipe up the excess that spilled onto the casing.
“You have a good memory, part of your magician training. I need you to remember where every part goes and what condition it’s in when I pull it out and find out why Old Bertha is wheezing and not producing enough ’tricity.”
Another strange word, this one for the power that came out of the generators. Magic was much easier to understand.
“You’re the only one smart enough to become the next engineer. I’ll not trust anyone from aboveground with my machines.”
As Yaala led Powwell deeper into the cave system, closer to the pit, he examined the tangle of metallic conduits that channeled the ’tricity from the generators to an unknown “transformer” in the Kaalipha’s palace. Maybe these conduits were like a staff, and the transformer was a magician who had learned to use this strange power. He’d learned to gather dragon magic to fuel his talent after he’d used the ley lines. This might be another kind of fuel.
The steam that powered the generators came from a lake that filled one of the lowest caverns. Pipes channeled the water above a glowing pit of lava, heating it past boiling into steam. The steam moved inside Old Bertha in some mysterious way, churning out energy that was captured by a turbine—some of the smaller satellite machines. Flexible conduits Yaala called “wires” snaked out of the turbines and disappeared into narrow lava tube tunnels.
Maybe the ley lines were just another kind of wire for naturally generated ’tricity.
Steam from Water becoming Air. Fire from the heart of the Kardia. All four elements were present in the ’tricity. That made it magic. He’d understand how to use it eventually, just as he’d learned to use ley lines and dragon magic. If he lived that long. If Kalen didn’t come for him soon.
Yaala ducked beneath a low-hanging slab of black rock within the dim tunnel. The only light came from that strange color-leeching yellow glow produced by the ’tricity. Powwell ducked, too. Behind the slab the roof remained low. He had to crouch to keep from banging his head. Yaala was short enough, so she only had to bend her head. She seemed to know the way and moved adroitly around other obstacles as the tunnel narrowed.
The noise grew louder the smaller the tunnel became. Powwell resisted the urge to cover his ears. He’d almost accepted the noise level back in the passageways. Here the sounds of Old Bertha chugging and wheezing echoed and compounded within the confines of the lava tube.
Yeek, kush, kush. Yeek, kush, kush. The sound assaulted his senses as it had during the trek with Televarn from the clearing. Powwell opened his eyes wider, looking around him for something familiar.
If Televarn had brought them through the pit to the palace, there must be another entrance from outside Hanassa. He turned a circle, peering at everything. Automatically he reached into his pocket to touch Thorny and see if his familiar remembered any of the smells down here.
His pocket was empty. The little hedgehog had found a nest of insects he liked up near the living cavern. He’d left Powwell alone sometime ago while he hunted a meal. Thorny would find him when he’d eaten his fill and napped a little.
S’murghit. He’d have to figure out the connection to Televarn’s route by himself.
Yeek, kushshshshs. Yeek, kush, kush.
“It sounds like Old Bertha has a blockage. A big blockage,” he yelled at Yaala. He’d learned that much about the generators in his three shifts. The tiniest buildup of mineral deposits from the water supply or rust on old metal created problems.
“I know that. But we’ve got to blast it clean with this probe before she conks out, or we’ll never get her started again,” Yaala replied, holding up a long flexible wand type tool. She moved swiftly around an old rockfall that nearly blocked the passage. “Bertha is very old.”
Powwell squeezed around the loose debris and nearly stumbled into the largest cave he’d seen down here. He could have built at least two buildings the size of the School for Magicians within the cave. Nearly filling the open space was the largest, rustiest, and loudest machine he’d ever seen.
Encased in black metal, Old Bertha rumbled and groaned and belched steam through rust holes in time with her vibrations. The rattle of the conduits going into and out of the generator gave the impression of a crotchety spider of immense proportions crouching over her latest prey.
Powwell immediately crossed himself in the Stargods’ ward against evil as he remembered Moncriith’s sermons against demon magic. The Bloodmage had gathered numerous followers to eliminate all magicians tainted by demons, starting with Myrilandel and including every person of talent except Moncriith. If demons did exist, they surely inhabited Old Bertha.
“It’s just a machine.” Yaala laughed as Powwell crossed himself a second time.
“Then why do you give them all names and treat them as if they were sentient beasts?” Powwell circled the grunting monster, keeping as close to the walls as he could and as far away from the machine as possible.
“Because these machines make Yaassima appear to be a magician. All of her tricks begin and end with them. She can’t be overthrown until I know everything about these machines, how to turn them off and how to restart them keyed to a different frequency. She’ll be powerless without her toys.”
“You mean the lights and appearing out of nowhere? That’s magic. My teacher, Nimbulan, could do that.” Powwell stopped his circuit when he came to a narrow archway that opened into the pit. The swirling colors of the molten rock beyond him upset his balance and reminded him of the weight of the mountain pressing on top of this cave. He kept to one side of the archway.
“But he performed those feats with an inborn talent,” Yaala argued. “He didn’t have to rely on machines he inherited through fifty generations of Kaaliphs.”
“Fifty generations?” Powwell added up the years in his head, then added them again. “That’s nearly a thousand years. These machines can’t date back to the time of the Stargods!”
“Maybe not these machines, but the technology comes from the time when Hanassa, the first Kaaliph, broke away from the dragon nimbus and took human form. He created the city named for him, and it became a refuge for the scum of Kardia Hodos who weren’t welcome anywhere else.”
Powwell’s brain reeled with that information. Myri had been a purple-tipped dragon before taking a human body. Did that make her related to Yaassima in some way?
“Hanassa used knowledge he stole from the Stargods to build the machines,” Yaala continued. “Maybe he stole the machines themselves from the Stargods. At first, the Kaaliphs knew how to replace old and worn-out machines. Now we can only clean and patch them. We’ve lost so much knowledge.” Yaala pounded her fist into her thigh.
She turned her back on Powwell and gave her attention to a quaking water pipe running from Old Bertha back to the lake. Hot water leaked from the pipe where it joined the machine’s belly. Flaking rust spread outward from the join. “I think there’s a blockage in this pipe.”
Powwell walked toward her, ready to watch how she inserted the probe. The shifting reds and greens of the pit, visible through an archway, kept drawing his focus. He looked over his shoulder repeatedly, watching the play of colors within the frame of the opening. He tried to break the compulsion to shift direction and walk through the colors into the pit.
Suddenly he watched not the boiling molten lava within the heart of the volcano but a secluded glen within a low-land forest. Tall trees bordered a nearly perfect circular clearing with a small campfire in the exact center. A mom
ent later Televarn ran across the clearing and dove into the archway. Two men from the School for Magicians chased him, brandishing clubs.
The Rover chieftain landed in the cave on his belly just as the colors swirled again and changed to the boiling lava in the pit.
Hastily, Televarn picked himself up and limped past Old Bertha. He looked around quickly, but Yaala was on the other side of Old Bertha and Powwell ducked into the machine’s shadow. The Rover whistled a jaunty tune as he brushed caked mud from his trews and vest. Then he strode into the nearest exit cavern, dragging his right leg slightly.
“Did you see that, Yaala? It was Televarn, I swear it, he walked out of the pit into this cave.”
“Illusions, Powwell. The heat plays tricks on you until you get used to it. Take a long drink, then help me disconnect this valve.”
Quinnault cantered slightly ahead of his escort on Buan, his favorite fleet steed. A year ago, he had ridden the length and breadth of Coronnan without a servant or body-guard. Back then he was merely one lord trying to persuade, coerce, or browbeat the other lords into accepting peace. No one cared if he fell victim to the marauding armies or packs of outlaws that roamed the countryside at will. Today he was king. Many people surrounded him, guaranteeing his safety.
But these mundane guards hadn’t stopped the Rover form poisoning his cup. He wished Nimbulan hadn’t gone on his dangerous quest. Quinnault didn’t really feel safe without his chief adviser and Senior Magician.
Why hadn’t Nimbulan told him he was leaving? He hadn’t even left a note or message for his king and friend.
Quinnault missed the solitude of his former life. Long rides between strongholds had offered him periods of intense meditation. Now he only found time to ride after supper or when on business as king. He never rode alone. So he kneed Buan into a slightly faster pace. The dozen soldiers who rode behind him urged their own mounts to keep up. But they stayed a discreet two-dozen steed-lengths behind him.
He’d left Konnaught behind with a long series of sword exercises to perform. The brat wouldn’t allow him this brief illusion of solitude. What could he do with the boy?
Quinnault wouldn’t arbitrarily exile or imprison Konnaught. Execution was out of the question for all but the most violent crimes. He wouldn’t allow himself to become the kind of tyrant who made up laws to suit his whims and then broke them when convenient. The new laws required a crime proved to judges before such a sentence could be considered.
Konnaught was too smart to let himself be caught in an active plot to overthrow Quinnault.
The road curved ahead of him, just before it entered a stretch of woodland—a former haven for outlaws. Heedless of possible ambush, he rode without slowing into the evening shadows gathering beneath the trees.
He needed to think, and think hard before full darkness forced him to return to the palace. An apprentice magician rode with the soldiers. He could provide torches of witchlight, but that wasn’t enough illumination to ward off predators and light their way home.
He pelted around the next curve, completely losing sight of his escort. The last of the afternoon sunshine dropped into deep twilight. Shadows stretched out to enfold the road in mystery. Buan faltered a step as the road became muddy. Huge clods of the sloppy road sprayed behind him. The sun rarely reached this deep into the woods to dry the trader’s road.
Buan slowed of his own accord. Quinnault loosened his short sword as he searched for whatever bothered the steed.
Something light and wispy fluttered across the road. Buan shied. Quinnault fought the beast with knees and reins. He needed all of his skills to stay mounted.
Buan circled and snorted. His skin rippled and twitched nervously. He pranced and circled.
Quinnault curbed him, resenting the concentration required to control the steed. He needed to know what had startled Buan. The now familiar short sword fit his hand comfortably. Stargods, how he resented the need to carry a weapon when Coronnan should know peace from violent crime as well as war.
“What is it, boy? You don’t usually fuss about a bit of evening mist.” He soothed Buan with a quiet voice and a gentle hand upon his glossy neck.
More drifting mist gathered in the woods around him. Short columns of lightness stood in a half circle across the road, spreading to his sides, blocking advance. He kneed Buan to prance in a circle, checking behind him. The road back to his escort remained open.
He turned to face the tallest column that stepped forward from the line of its companions.
“What manner of ghost are you?” Quinnault asked, not liking the slight quaver in his voice. He’d faced the shadowed guardian of Haunted Isle with less uncertainty than he felt now. But he’d had Nimbulan, a powerful Battlemage, at his side then.
Where was the Senior Magician of the Commune now when his king needed him?
“We are not of this world.” A deep, melodic voice drifted out of the central ghost. Masculine in timber and authority. His outline fluttered in a slight breeze. “We need conversation with you, King Quinnault.”
“You have my attention.” Where was his escort? They should have caught up to him by now.
“Your companions await you at the edge of the woods. They are not aware that time passes or that you are not with them. We will restore them when our conversation is finished.”
“Are you magicians, that you read minds?” Quinnault’s nervousness transferred to Buan. The steed stamped and tried to break free of his master’s control.
“Not magicians as you define them. But we have powers similar to them. We seek a bargain with the King of Coronnan. We usually pay in the mineral substance you call diamonds. This time, we trade something more valuable.”
“Varns! You’re Varns.” Fantastic legends surrounded the mysterious merchants who appeared in the marketplaces of Kardia Hodos once each century—always in a year of bounty. They bought enormous quantities of grain and fresh food, paying in diamonds.
Quinnault’s grandfather claimed to have met a Varn about forty years ago. They weren’t due back in Coronnan for another sixty years or more. This wasn’t a year of plenty either.
The king’s senses shifted into full alertness.
“Your people call us Varns because we prefer to trade in the city of Varnicia.”
“How may I be of service?” A large quantity of diamonds would go a long way toward stabilizing Coronnan’s economy after three generations of war.
“Coronnan needs more than diamonds to bring stability, King Quinnault.”
Disconcerting how these amorphous beings read his thoughts.
“You need a bride who can give you many heirs. You also need a way of keeping greedy enemies from invading through the Great Bay. We can give you both.”
“At what price?”
“We are dying. The tree you call the Tambootie offers the only cure.”
“How much will you need?” Quinnault thought of the dragons who used the foliage of that tree for food. Previously, magicians, too, had eaten of the tree to enhance their magic. The addictive qualities of the drug made the Tambootie almost as dangerous as it was beneficial. Now that magicians gathered dragon magic, they had no need of the Tambootie. Dragons were as essential to Coronnan as the promised wife and heirs.
“The new leaves of many acres of the tree will allow us to distill enough medicine for our immediate needs.”
“That is a lot. I don’t know that we can spare that much.” Quinnault sent out a silent plea for advice—permission—from the dragons.
“Raw Tambootie is toxic to humans. What possible reason do you have to hoard it when we need it so desperately?” A note of pleading entered the otherwise emotionless voice.
“Tambootie feeds our dragons. I need the dragons, and the dragons need the Tambootie as much as you do.”
Chapter 17
Televarn paced the perimeter of the Rover cavern. His cavern. He was THE Rover. Every member of the nomadic tribes who dwelt within the city looked to him for leadership.
He controlled their movements, their thoughts, their beliefs.
So why couldn’t he find Kalen among them? Wiggles squirmed impatiently inside his vest. The animal sensed that Kalen was near enough that it should be able to join her.
“Be still, beast.” Televarn batted at the ferret’s paws where it tried to claw through his shirt to his skin. “We’ll find her if we have to tear this city apart.” The city, not the Kaalipha’s palace. He intended to make the palace his home as soon as he deposed Yaassima.
Swallowing his pride and gritting his teeth in distaste, Televarn decided to ask questions when he should have been able to pluck the information from the mind of any one of his followers. Why?
Erda, the old wisewoman of his clan—every clan possessed an Erda, but this one was the oldest, most powerful and HIS—shuffled past him into the slave pens. She carried a pot of gruel, the standard meal for captives. As soon as the slaves had eaten, they would be linked together by ankle chains and led to the lush plateau northwest of the city to work the only fields near enough to Hanassa to provide some food for the inhabitants.
Televarn’s obligation to lend his slaves to Yaassima for this work irritated his pride. He should make the decision where and when his slaves worked. He should be the one running the city and raiding rich caravans for food and other necessities rather than supervising work parties.
“Erda, where have you hidden Kalen?” He grabbed the old woman’s sleeve to detain her.
Erda glared at his hand, reminding him of the effrontery of touching an Erda without permission.
Televarn’s irritation made him reckless. He left his hand in place.
“Televarn seeks the one who is dangerous. Your death I see in her eyes.” She didn’t pull away from him, just continued to stare at his hand on her arm, reminding him of his trespass.
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