Fabrick

by Andrew Post

  “What do ye say ye all throw down your weapons for me? Looking at the business end of a pistol always makes me a wee bit nervous.” He smiled, showing crystal teeth from one side of his broad grin to the other.

  Flam, despite his flooding nausea, managed to look at Nevele. “Oh, yeah, this is much better than out there with him.”

  Chapter 27

  And a Hard Place

  To Vidurkis’s enormous disappointment, one glimpse of them after another was blocked as more and more of the entrance cascaded in. In no time at all the entire mountainside seemed to have slid over the spot, leaving not a solitary opening. It was as if it had always looked this way, just a bare rock wall that had never seen a single throw of a pick. He watched it all, shaking his head, his mind reeling. The final rock fell—clok—and tumbled off the heap. When it came to a stop, all was silent.

  Dropping to his knees, blood dripping from the countless bites all over his face and neck, he cursed his arrogance. He had gotten the Mouflon—a direct hit of gray light—since he was sure it was mere seconds before they’d all be dead at his feet. But now the Mouflon was in there and Vidurkis was out here, tons of rock between.

  His lips moved. “Three days,” he told himself, too overcome to stop thinking aloud. “Three blasted days.” After that, the world would forever be black to him. He’d be blind as something that lived deep in the earth, hapless and dumb. He’d just be another man then. He wouldn’t be able to call himself a weaver of fabrick anymore. He’d be damned if he’d go around saying he was an ex-weaver. No, absolutely not.

  Three days. Unless that scavenger was dead by then, Vidurkis would go blind. He’d come close before. It was how he came to learn that’s what would happen. A purse snatcher once got the grays from him, tried to run, and managed to stay hidden in a family member’s pantry for two and a half days. Vidurkis, still ignorant of how he’d degrade without the claimed kill, took his time. Sure enough, there it was. On the second day’s morn, he could barely read newsprint. By that afternoon, he was struggling to reload his weapon; everything was dull and fuzzy about the edges. Luckily, the thief’s aunt got paranoid about what might happen to her if she didn’t run her nephew in, and he received a tip. The moment the man had the last breath dragged from him, Vidurkis’s vision cleared. He learned to treat his gift with a little more respect from that point on, recalling one of the decrees of the Goddess: take care of one’s tools, physical or no.

  But there would be no family member to turn in the Mouflon, no anonymous phone call for Vidurkis to idly wait for. He’d have to tend to this himself.

  That Mouflon had to die.

  “Now,” the man said, steering his wheelchair up to the group once they had all surrendered their weapons to the earthen floor. “What in the name of all that is good are you—a Mouflon, a whole slew of frisk mice, a lady who’s apparently been through the meat grinder, and a bloke I can only assume has never seen a second’s worth of sunshine in his life—doing down here in my bloody mine?”

  “This isn’t your mine. It’s Mr. Wilkshire’s,” Clyde spat, forgetting his manners as well as his wits: they were all in his gun’s range.

  The man abruptly halted in his meandering glide and pulled back on his joystick to throw the wheelchair into reverse. Angling it nimbly forward with a flick of his wrist, he stopped before Clyde, the blunderbuss now trained on his face.

  “Excuse me, lad,” he said with a chuckle devoid of humor. “I didn’t catch that. I’m a bit deaf after that blast, ye see. Say that again if ye wouldn’t mind. Go ahead. Lean right in here to me left ear—me good one—and tell me what ye just said one more again.”

  Nevele sidled forward. “Pardon my friend, sir. We’re kind of on a task, and we just want to get up into the waterworks so we can get back up to the city.”

  “Ha,” the man’s haughty voice echoed through the enormous chamber. “Ye can say that ye and ye friends are trying to get to Geyser all ye want. Ye could even say ye mean to enter this one here into a beauty contest”—he waved a fingerless-gloved hand at Flam—“but I know what ye’re up to. Ye’re down here lookin’ for the deposit. Word finally got out, did it? That Gorett found the only source of wendal stone on Gleese, and yer band of ninnies thought ye’d just stroll right in and take it. Didn’t ye? Well, I guess ye didn’t count on any of the miners sticking around, did ye? Sorry to burst yer bubble, but Nigel Wigglesby will not be chased off from his post quite so easily!”

  Hands still raised, Clyde noticed at the back of the cave another set of the mining machines, one of which had its blade sunk into the cave wall, blocking the way to the deeper passages. But as far as accommodations, there seemed to be precious little. No bed, no store of food, nothing. Just the shadows, the stalagmites like a chamber of pointless columns clogging up the fringes of the space, and a whole lot of dirt.

  Hands up and not looking the least bit happy about it, Nevele said, “We just want to pass through. I assure you we don’t give a damn about your wendal stone.”

  At this, Flam shifted, the words speak for yourself plainly on the tip of his tongue.

  “Mr. Wilkshire hired me to prevent anyone from entering the mine without proper paperwork. He told me, straight to me mug, that if anyone were to come down here day or night without their sheets in order, I was to report them posthaste, no questions asked. And since I’m sure ye’re aware that not even the authorities can be trusted any longer, this here”— he indicated his blunderbuss with a nod and a smile—“is the only means of reporting that I trust.”

  It was then that Clyde noticed the stock of the gun had several shallow notches carved into it; this man wasn’t going to take any guff. He stammered, “I w-was also an employee of Mr. Wilkshire.”

  “Fantastic,” Nigel said with sarcasm, his wheelchair in front of Clyde once again. “Let me see yer paperwork, and I’ll be more than obliged to lift that blade out of the passage so ye can get your arse chewed three ways to Sunday by the Blatta. Come on, then. Where is it? Make with the forms, lad.”

  “Forms,” his diseased-looking bird called.

  “I don’t have any,” Clyde said first to the bird, then to this man who called himself Nigel.

  “No?” he said, the corners of his mouth pulling down in faux sorrow. “That’s really too bad. Maybe we should break down the wall there, see if that mad-lookin’ fella that was chasing ye has any paperwork. I got plenty of sticks to do it, too. All it would take is one little pop, and I could bring him right in here.”

  “No,” Flam exclaimed. “Don’t. Please.”

  Nigel showed his crystal teeth, apparently amused at inciting Flam’s reaction. He settled in his wheelchair and slid his hand off the handle of his blunderbuss. He chewed his lip, his crystal teeth flashing when they caught the meager, diluted light.

  After what felt like hours of apparent deliberation with himself, the man turned his head slightly to confer with the thing on his shoulder. “What do you make of all this?”

  The bird made a few strange clucks, flapped its wings against its flanks with fleshy slaps, and let out a long screech.

  Apparently Nigel found it absolutely hilarious. He belly laughed, slapping the armrest of his wheelchair. Then he became very serious very quickly. It was as if the man’s emotions were on some kind of board game spinner, the flicks it received coming at unpredictable intervals. His gaze was on Nevele. “Ye two were shooting at each other.”

  “Yes, we were.”

  “Just standing there, facing one another. Like people do when they really want someone dead. Not even tryin’ to dodge the other’s bullets.”

  Nevele’s head sank a little, but she kept her hands up. “Yes.”

  “And he was dressed in a Royal Patrol guardsman uniform, of the Executioner rank, if I’m not mistaken. Two bronze axes on the lapel.” He fingered his own stained collar. “That is what that means, right?”

  “It is,” she said quietly.

  “And so, if ye aren’t bandits who mean to
filch Mr. Wilkshire’s wendal stone and ye’re down here out of honesty and the joyful spreading of goodness . . . why in the blazes was a member of the Patrol shooting at ye?”

  “Well . . .” Nevele began at length.

  “Gorett is corrupt,” Clyde said. “He made everyone leave Geyser so he could have the wendal stone to himself. He framed Mr. Wilkshire for the Blatta invasion. Someone murdered him. We’re just trying to get back into Geyser to make things right.”

  “Make things right, ye say? My, my, my. Intrepid warriors on a grand adventure looking to set things right. Gracious! That is one for the storybooks, don’t ye think, Scooter?”

  The bird slapped its wings excitedly and pealed, “Gracious!”

  “I agree. I believe they are pulling our chain.”

  Clyde slowly lowered his hands.

  Nigel’s grip was quick to find the stock of his blunderbuss. He turned to Clyde and closed the gap between them with a tweak on the joystick. “What’s that ye’re doing there, boy? Looking to draw steel on me, are ye? Let’s take a look, see what was so dire that ye didn’t toss it on the ground like I told ye to before.” He reached out and moved Clyde’s suit coat aside to look. Clipped onto the belt loop was the citizen dagger.

  Nigel’s hand faltered, fingers outstretched but hesitating. After a moment, he seemed to remember what he was doing and snatched the blade from the scabbard. The grating sound alarmed Scooter, and it flapped and screamed until Nigel soothed it with a stroke of its yellow, hooked beak.

  Nigel studied the blade in his hands for a moment, paying particular attention to the engraving. He peered at Clyde with one eye narrowed. “This really his?”

  Clyde nodded.

  Nigel let out a long whistling breath through his nostrils. He seemed to melt into the chair, sinking forward, elbows resting on his knees. He stared into the peerless blade, which he held reverently in his palms.

  “Guess that means he really is dead.” Nigel’s bottom lip trembled ever so slightly. “I had heard he was being blamed for all of it, but I figured it would work itself out. News travels slow through two miles of rock, as you can imagine.”

  He raised his head, his sorrow visible, his moustache an upside-down V on his face. “I’ll tell you one thing. There’s no way in hell Mr. Wilkshire would let his men die like that.” He glanced at the dagger again, turned it around so he pinched the blade between thumb and index finger. He allowed Clyde to grip the handle and return it to its scabbard.

  Nigel pushed the butt of the mounted blunderbuss aside, swinging the barrels away so they were no longer pointed at the group.

  Everyone seemed to relax.

  “Any idea who could’ve done it?” Nigel asked, resting his hands on the thighs of his stunted, atrophied legs.

  Clyde shook his head.

  Nigel did too and added a groan.

  “That really is quite a shame. I know in my heart that Mr. Wilkshire didn’t have anything to do with that. Where we were mining, it was a good half mile from the Blatta hive. The wall got tapped after hours, when we weren’t even here. Figured it was a cave-in. I imagined the evidence would make it to the right people before . . .” He frowned. “Forgive me. I just can’t believe old man Wilkshire’s dead.”

  “I apologize, but is there a way through there?” Nevele asked, gesturing at the massive, sunken blade of the mining machine.

  Beyond it, faintly, the screeches of the Blatta could be heard. All the commotion and explosions must have rattled them.

  The sound drove a chill into Clyde, and he involuntarily placed a hand on his chest to quell the sensation.

  “Aye, but it’s rather shite at the moment. I work on it when I can, but as ye can clearly see, I’m not exactly the rock climber sort. Been tinkering with a few concoctions of my own to make some kind of poison to gas the nasty things out. So far, nothing’s worked.” He steered his wheelchair away, rubber wheels leaving a set of trails in the dirt toward the machine blocking the path.

  The others picked up their weapons from the ground and replaced them on their persons. They followed Nigel beyond the reach of the meager fluorescent lights mounted to the cavern ceiling.

  “Come on in. I got the kettle on,” Nigel said, sadness still straining his voice.

  The group paused before the wall of darkness that had effectively absorbed Nigel. The soft crunch of his wheels in the dirt led them, but there was no telling if Nigel was leading them off a cliff while he took a narrow bridge only he knew about. The group paused when the sound of Nigel’s wheels halted.

  Then came the clap of gloved hands. A series of lights thumped on in sequence and illuminated a beautiful house—right inside the cavern.

  A full wraparound porch, a turreted foyer, dormered windows on the second floor, just like a home one would see in the ward Mr. Wilkshire had lived in. Atop the turret was a rooster weather vane, which didn’t make much sense here but made the house’s inviting visage complete.

  “Beg your pardon, Mr. Wigglesby, but how is it that you have electricity?” Rohm asked. “I thought the Geyser turbines weren’t running anymore, the floodway being as blocked up as it is.”

  “Ah, yeah—that was kind of a headache, but I got the whole house wired to the digger out there. The battery on that thing could power Geyser for a month if it had to. A good use of the old noggin on my part, if I say so myself.”

  Clyde spotted the thick cables, like big black vines, running from the digger to the house.

  “Impressive,” Flam remarked.

  Using the ramp, Nigel bypassed the porch’s stairs. With a casual wave of his hand, the front doors swung open. The bird on his shoulder took flight and shot out ahead of him to a perch in the roomy, wood-paneled living room.

  The others followed.

  Clyde marveled at the beautiful furnishings: varnished dark wood, leather wingback chairs, elegant spider-silk sofas. Moving along behind Nigel, Clyde was treated to the sight of marble kitchen countertops and an army of pots hanging from a rack suspended from the hammered tin ceiling. In the large dining room, stretching from one end to the opposite, was a grand table that could accommodate dozens.

  Nigel pulled open the icebox and called over his shoulder, “Anyone care for something besides tea? It is quitting time, after all, and by the looks of it, you’ve earned it.”

  “What is this place?” Flam asked. “Did they build this for visiting rich folk or what?”

  “It was ours—the miners’.” He said it as if a grand home inside a cavern were the most normal thing in the world. “Mr. Wilkshire didn’t want us sleeping on cots and working in bad conditions. If we wanted to live here full-time, we could. Some men did. He had the place built shortly after he bought the mine. You should see the shack that was here before—just a can and three walls of clapboard. But this, yeah, I don’t mind living here one bit. Of course . . . it has been a bit quiet as of late.”

  “You’re the only one left?” Clyde said.

  “That I am.” The pride in his voice was mostly unconvincing. “Out of a crew of eighty employees in the Kobbal Mines, I am the last one.”

  He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again it was with a levity that sounded anything but sturdy. “So beers all around, or what’ll it be? I got some sandwiches in here that are only partly expired. Some bread. Eggs. We could fry them up and see what happens.”

  He spun around from the open icebox door. “Come on, now. Don’t be shy. Place your orders. Ol’ Nigel can cook just about anything!”

  Chapter 28

  Vacancy

  After dinner, with everyone seated around the long dinner table and a majority of the travelers’ tale told, Nigel studied his guests.

  He blinked at Rohm. “Don’t take no offense, little mice, but I typically fight to keep your kind out of this place, and here ye are, eating off the good china, no less.” He chuckled, as did most of the mice.

  Next, Nigel studied Nevele and Clyde, who sat side by side. “You two weavers I have figured
out. You mean to set things right. Makes sense to me, given how Geyser—and the whole damn planet—has treated the lot of ye in the past few years. That much I can wrap my head around.”

  He bobbed a finger at Flam, who was finishing his third helping of stew. “But what about ye, fella? What’s yer story? Thought all Mouflons skedaddled from this rock ages ago.”

  Flam tapped his spoon on his bowl. “There’s a few of us left kicking around,” he said with a grin. “I would’ve done just that—skedaddled—if it weren’t for Pasty here making me give my word. Not sure if you know, but if a Mouflon gives his word—”

  “He has to keep it. Yeah, I’ve known quite a few Mouflons in my day. Had a few work down here for a while. This one big galoot named Greenspire used to be a real good drinking buddy of mine—”

  “Greenspire?” Flam’s spoon crashed against the edge of his bowl. “Greenspire Flam?”

  Nigel smiled. “Knew him, did ye?”

  “Greenspire Flam was my uncle!” Flam nearly overturned his chair with excitement.

  “Well, dress me up in lace and send me to the debutante ball—I had no idea that grumpy jerk had any relatives. I figured that old coot would likely eat any young in his family. Makes sense, given the surname, now that I think about it. I should’ve known. Ye two have very similar . . . horns.”

  “He was a swell guy. The best.”