Fabrick

by Andrew Post

  “And to what do I owe this pleasure?” Vidurkis droned, his chains clinking as he sat straighter. “A visit from the new king? My, my—you should’ve said something, Pitka. I would’ve tidied up, gotten a trim, run out for lemon bars.”

  Despite the dirt, Gorett took a seat on the stone bench across from the bound killer. This conversation needed to come off as personable, as if they were old friends, as they used to be. Hard thing to pull off, certainly, one man wearing the raven robes of the King of Geyser and the other naked to the waist and bound in chains manufactured for use on shipping vessels.

  “I apologize, my friend, for not retrieving you sooner.”

  Vidurkis shrugged. “Those who are told they are the most indispensable are often the first forgotten when there’s a change in the staff. I knew you’d need me eventually, what with all this hubbub in the city.”

  “The citizens have been removed, and the Blatta are nearing the surface. We need to get at the deposit before it’s lost.”

  “I’m no miner, Pitka. You want someone to take up a pick and shovel? Go put a job listing on another planet where there are plenty of dumb and poor willing to risk their lives for payment.” Bending forward to reach with his chained wrist, the man swept some greasy hair from his face. “I can hear them, you know? That damn scream they make. Right through these walls.” He pressed an ear against the stone. “Every passing week, the sound gets a fraction clearer.”

  The man was spooky. Gorett decided to just get to the point. “We believe the girl has escaped. If so, I fear she’s going to make trouble for us.”

  “So go kill her.” His face remained pressed at the wall, as if he were too transfixed by the faint sound of scuffling insects to commit to the conversation fully.

  Even Gorett could hear them in the speck of silence when everyone present was silent and the torches’ crackling paused. The scratching pressed him on. “You know as well as I do that her fabrick is strong. None of my men stand a chance against her. You’ll have to go after her. We can only assume she’s loose somewhere in the city. She knows about the Blatta. She has secrets in her head that need to be kept, Vidurkis. She could ruin us if she gets to the mainland and calls anyone. Anyone at all. She could bring Adeshka against us. They’ve always had it out for us, taking our citizenry like it was some kind of damned favor.”

  “If she could so easily pose a threat to you, why did you keep her alive?”

  “I thought . . . she could be convinced. Most people have a price. She did not. Even after giving her a few months in seclusion to tally one up. Regardless, if she’s loose, we’ve got to do something.”

  Vidurkis laughed, a blast of sickly noise. “We? Come now, King Gorett. You know as well as I do that I’m not included in any sort of we. Pyne put me down here. You could’ve said something at my trial, but you didn’t.” He paused. “You want the girl stopped? You should’ve thought of that and put a bullet between Margaret’s beautiful eyes when you had the opportunity.”

  “I know, but there wasn’t any time . . . I was going to, but then the Odium started their bombing. Besides, if we could avoid killing her, I would prefer it. She’s woven in such a way, unlike any other, and I thought if she could be convinced—”

  “Us weavers, we’re like amusements to you, aren’t we? Or in my case, little tools in little drawers.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t import—”

  “Let her roam Geyser. Let her get off the island and spread the truth about what you did.” He waved a hand, the length of chain clanking. “Makes no difference to me. The view never changes in my little drawer. In fact, go ahead and let her bring Adeshka against you. I hope they put your head on the highest pike they can find. On top of the geyser itself, so the steam—if they ever get the damn thing unplugged—can bleach your skull every hour on the hour. It’ll be a way for the Blatta to tell how long it’s been since Geyser became their city: how white the old king’s skull is. Their calendar.”

  He was nearly yelling now, positioning himself on thin, brittle legs. One of the guardsmen reached a gray light lantern into the cell, thumb poised over the trigger.

  Vidurkis looked at the deactivated gray blob hanging inside the fluid, then at the guard holding the lantern. He raised one shackled wrist to point at his own eyes with his fingers held in a V. “Where do you think that shite comes from, boy? Do you really think it’d work on its source?”

  The guardsman shrank away.

  “Moron.” Vidurkis’s gray eyes regarded Gorett, who was settling onto his seat. “If you release me, I’ll find her if she’s out there. But when she’s dead, I will not return to this pit. Far too long have I been here, counting the days.” He looked at the grimy wall again. “And listening.”

  Gorett bowed his head. “You kill her, and I will grant your freedom.” He stopped, looked into Vidurkis’s face. “She may not be alone. We understand there’s also a man and a Mouflon loose in the city. Dangerous ones, at that. Armed.”

  “A man and an armed Mouflon.” Vidurkis laughed. “Tall order, King. I was an executioner, remember, Pitka?”

  “I want them all dealt with. They can’t leave Geyser, considering what your sister knows, if they are in fact working together in any capacity at all—”

  “Don’t call her that. She wouldn’t call herself that—my sister. Nor should I address her as anything but a stranger.” He looked at his clawlike hands. “That gulf developed a long time ago. Back when I gave myself over to my skills, became better—but worse in her eyes. I was good, though, at what I did. Lost my sister but gained something so much more wondrous. Usefulness. Excellence at something. Skill.” He stopped, looking slapped, as if he hadn’t meant to let that tirade spill from his lips. He glanced at the crowd of guards at the door, then at Gorett across the cell from him. “Do you remember? How good I was?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Splendid, draped in Executioner blacks. The boots and the rifle and swords. How magnificent an image I cut. Such a pillar of authority.”

  Gorett made himself nod and remember. “Yes. You were rather remarkable at what you did. And everyone knew it.”

  “Damn right they did,” he replied without joy. He sat back, seemingly sated. He cleared his throat. “I’ll do it, but you must keep your word this time, Pitka. You broke my trust once. Just sat there and stared at me, those damned wormy lips saying nothing on my behalf when Pyne banged the gavel.” He was getting loud again but reined himself in. He sat forward, chains clinking, one hand reaching out to point at Gorett’s heart. “But allow me to just say this. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, I cut your throat.”

  Chapter 17

  Fresh Ink

  Water poured continually where the floor ended and the open-air elevator shaft began. The stream passed through the grating and fell through the remainder of Geyser’s platter to the forest far below. The flow scattered in the wind, reduced to mist. Clyde watched, vertigo hitting him hard.

  He stood at the edge. Even from this great distance, he could smell the sea. He looped his hands through the fencing surrounding the elevator shaft, peering at the forest ending and the beach beginning. The ocean looked inviting. Clean, blue water. As one wave after another broke, he could hear it faintly on a delay: rush, rush, rush.

  Some daylight snuck through the underside of the city’s structure, letting them know it was late afternoon.

  Rohm said, “It appears the elevator car is already down there.”

  Nevele walked to the control panel and absently pressed a few of the darkened buttons on its display. “I remember hearing them leave. They rounded up a few of the cabinet members’ elderly mothers and put them in. I remember the last lot of them. When they left, they never sent the car back up. They probably jammed it up good, too, just so no one else could leave.”

  “Typical,” Flam grunted.

  “Well,” Nevele said, “if we plan to get out of this awful place, we best put our heads together for a solution
.”

  She turned to Rohm, whose thousands of eyes studied the surrounding area: the cables hanging in the middle of the shaft on the other side of the elevator gate, the control panels, the electric wires running to the elevator works. Rohm silently worked it all out, thousands of little brains analyzing cooperatively.

  “There hasn’t been a surge in a while,” Flam said. “I wonder if the geyser finally gave up the ghost.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised,” Nevele said. “Those Blatta sure were hard at work clogging it.”

  Clyde, Flam, and Rohm faced her.

  She raised her eyebrows. “You don’t know?”

  They shook their heads.

  “It was the reason that bastard Gorett trapped me here. I wasn’t in his inner circle, by any means, but I lived in the palace, working as the delegate of fabrick weaver affairs like I said—and seamstress when it was called for. And, as service folk do, we got wind of a fair amount of gossip. But one particular strand of rumors was a bit big: what our new king would do about a certain discovery in the Kobbal Mines.”

  “The Kobbal Mines?” Clyde exclaimed. “Mr. Wilkshire owned part of those.”

  Nevele’s stitch-strewn eyebrows crunched over her eyes. “You knew Mr. Wilkshire?”

  “I did. It’s who I am—was—seeking to avenge.”

  “Oh, you poor dear. I can’t imagine how you felt when he was framed in such a terrible way.”

  Clyde shook his head. “Framed?”

  “The Blatta infestation? How he was blamed for knowing their hive was down there? And how—good gracious, do you know about any of this?” She turned to the other two, who both shook their heads. “I guess I thought if you were still here, it meant you knew.”

  Clyde forced himself to speak. “What happened?” His voice sounded muddied, sadder than ever.

  “The miners discovered a wealth of precious metals inside the mines. By King Pyne’s orders, Geyser law states that any major discovery of wealth must be evenly distributed to every man, woman, and child of the city. Of course, when Gorett got word that such a monumental discovery had been made, he wanted it all to himself. Wendal stone is, after all, one of the most valuable materials on this planet.”

  “Good Meech, wendal stone? On Gleese?”

  “Precisely,” Nevele said. “And when Gorett heard the deposit wasn’t just a small chunk but an entire miles-wide bed of pure wendal stone, he wasn’t going to share with everyone. So he used what he knew about the Kobbal Mines. It was in close proximity to a major Blatta hive, and he saw to it that the hive was accidentally tapped. Blatta flooded the mines, killing nearly all the miners within a day. And of course, with something so tragic, someone had to be blamed. Gorett saw no one better than the owner of those mines, Albert Wilkshire. I met him once,” she said as an aside. “He was very nice to me, despite my . . . looks.”

  Clyde felt like he’d been pinned under a boulder for the last day and a half and someone had mercifully rolled it off him. “He was a kind man indeed.”

  Nevele placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I had no idea that’s who you were seeking to avenge. I understand now. But I’m not sure why you were so disheartened. Don’t you want justice for your friend?”

  “He blamed himself. In his journal, he said he’d known about the Blatta hive. That those who survived the attack probably would join up with the Odium and come back to kill him.”

  “I highly doubt any miners in his employ would’ve joined the Odium. And the Blatta hive was no secret. It wasn’t such a sure thing until a few miners reported seeing droppings and the husks they shed every few months. Gorett made sure to know where the edges of the hive were, though. I saw the diagrams in his office once. They were mining terribly close to it, even before the discovery of the wendal stone deposit. Not by Mr. Wilkshire’s choosing—I’m sure of it. Gorett kept a close eye on the mines and commanded their owners to push their diggers hard.”

  “So Gorett’s to blame? He made Mr. Wilkshire believe he was a bad man?” Clyde felt a touch sick. “Mr. Wilkshire died thinking he deserved what happened to him.”

  “It’s a shame indeed,” Nevele said. “I think you have the ink to rewrite that mission statement of yours. Your goal and mine are pretty similar. We could write them together, if you wish.”

  “I think I’d like that.”

  “Then we’ll do this for him as well as all the others Gorett has ruined.”

  Flam slapped the gate. “Well, that makes all this pretty damn foolish, doesn’t it? If we’re after Gorett now, what’s the point of getting to sea level? Say we get there and throw rocks at Geyser in hopes one knocks him on the head?”

  “That’s true,” Rohm said. “If we want to get closer to Gorett, we should turn ourselves in to the Patrol guardsmen. It’s the only way to get through Geyser’s north end.”

  Nevele smiled and shook her head. “You men. Always the same. Charging headlong into a situation, which will only get you run through.” She approached the elevator control panel again. “You’ve heard of undermining someone, haven’t you? It comes from the act of doing just that. I suggest we go below and get at Gorett that way.”

  “Go through the sewer system? Are you barmy? Especially now, with this new information you’ve handed us. I hope you know the mines and sewers run side by side through Geyser’s stem. And you say the geyser itself is jammed because of the Blatta? And still that’s where you’re suggesting we go? This woman is off her nut, Pasty. There’s no way I’m going into those tunnels again.”

  Nevele whipped around. “Wait a moment. Again? You’ve been in there before?”

  “As a pup, yeah. Worked in the sewers with my uncle, doing repairs and such.”

  “Fabulous. You can be our guide.”

  Flam laughed. He pointed at Clyde but kept his gaze fixed on Nevele. “I gave my Mouflon promise to Pasty here that as soon as we reached a pilot to take him to the Odium, we’d part ways. That was back when we thought they were likely to blame. And now, with the plan all changed, that negates the previous arrangement entirely.” He grinned, thumbing the strap of his satchel. But his bluster quickly dissolved when he noticed the others were glaring at him.

  “Fine,” Nevele said, her finger poised over the elevator call button, waiting for a power surge. “Go ahead and leave. Consider yourself removed from any responsibility. What are you, anyway? Do you have a profession? Dressed like that, you look like some kind of wrestler or pugilistic entertainer.”

  “I’m a treasure hunter, Zippergirl. And all this, with the plan to go into Blatta-infested caves and then overthrow a corrupt king? None of that—I repeat, none of that—is in the thief’s code. And I would know. I wrote the Meech-damned thing. You want to go and play revolutionary? Go right ahead. But me? Once we get to sea level, I’m through with all this. I’ll get my auto, piece her back together, and I’m gone.”

  “Suit yourself. But we are going into the Kobbal Mines, and as I said, there was an enormous deposit of wendal stone down there. And, as I left out and will tell you now, Gorett’s breaching the Blatta hive wall was ill timed. They never got to the deposits. It’s still down there—more wendal stone than a man or Mouflon could carry up in his entire life.”

  “They never got it?” Flam’s eyes widened.

  “Nope. Every guardsman Gorett sent was killed. They tried hiring miners from all over to fetch it, but none would. The news had spread far and wide about that Blatta infestation. Whether it were wendal stone or a truckload of beech quartz, no one would be daft enough to go after it.”

  Flam crossed his arms, bowing his horned head. “They . . . just didn’t know what they were doing is all. Not that I’m saying I’m agreeing to go, that is. I’m just saying. They didn’t have . . . the same know-how as someone like me would have. That’s all.”

  Clyde hated that Flam had considered giving up. He was just beginning to like him, to the point he actually started thinking of him as a friend.

  Flam must’ve felt Cl
yde’s burning gaze. He looked up, and the two measured one another’s stares.

  “Fine, I’ll help. But just for Pasty here. Don’t call me greedy or anything. But look at him, with his bow tie and those damned puppy eyes. How could I say no to that?” He took Clyde’s white cheeks in his stony hands. “Just look at that face.”

  Clyde laughed but knew Flam’s sudden giddiness was fueled purely by greed. Still, he tried to push that aside for now. Maybe they really were friends.

  Nevele harrumphed and faced the control panel. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

  Chapter 18

  Goddesses and Floods Most Imminent

  A few members of Gorett’s royal guard escorted Vidurkis to the block housing on the easternmost side of the residential ward, where it was commonly known that the poor folks lived. Before Vidurkis had enlisted—and even after he was offered a room within the Patrol barracks—he kept his own space. It was a small cottage-style home across the cracked street from a delicatessen, a mere hop and a skip from the railroad tracks. Nestled between the garbage collection depot, where it always stunk the worst on Tuesdays when they burned the heap, it was a place for the old and forgotten, who smelled as bad as the flaming trash.

  Without the chains, Vidurkis felt light as a feather. He was much more lithe than he had been before. His daily meals had consisted of soggy, overcooked rice and, every other day, a breakfast of strange, sour porridge. His body was weak, but he knew he was now more powerful in the mind than he had ever been as Executioner. Loads of time to think would do that to a man.

  But unlike the prisoners around him in the dungeon, Vidurkis hadn’t developed a conscience. A lot of them had begun openly chanting to invisible men and women whose names they had trouble pronouncing, begging for forgiveness.

  Vidurkis had taken another tack. While he found solace in a religion of sorts, it wasn’t one that would cleanse him. He begged for the roll of the dice to turn up in his favor from the Mechanized Goddess, a deity the Odium pirates favored, for she taught self-reliance with only a bit of mumbo jumbo about fate. Kind of a scandal, that. A man of high birth and social standing within a respectable city’s security force subscribing to such a . . . brutish belief system.