Fabrick

by Andrew Post

  “And that’s what ye’ll have to be: patient. With yerself. It’ll take time. But ye know Gorett must be stopped. On that task, ye cannot allow room for error whatsoever.” He sat forward, pointed the burning end of his pipe at Clyde. “Ye have managed to gather a good circle of people around you, and that is most fortunate. I will help ye in any way I can.

  “I apologize for laying such a hefty load on ye like this, but it’s up to ye, Clyde. Ye have to be present when Gorett is slain so ye can inherit the throne.”

  “Slain? But I don’t want to . . . kill anyone.” That word, like the Odium, tasted bad.

  Clyde put his face in his hands. Here he was, feeling as if he were simply trying to scrape by. He relied on his friends to do a majority of the work, and he figured it would be Nevele in the end to kill Gorett, since she seemed to have just as much, if not more, of a reason to see the corrupt prime minister dead. And now, he himself had to take charge of their task—to quell the bumps in the road, steer them proper.

  “Ye can tell the others or keep it to yerself. I wouldn’t blame ye either way. But, as it stands, yer survival means everything to Geyser. The citizens will support ye once they know the truth. They will take up arms against the Odium if they know they have someone at the lead who will stay sturdy. It’s a damned tragedy that ye cannot remember yer father, because he would be such a great example for ye. But this way, it can be something new and exciting. Ye will do great things that are all yer own, learn as ye go, and be yer own man.”

  Clyde was a shade more okay with all this than he had been a minute ago. Perhaps Nigel was right: all it would take was time to get used to it. “Thank you for telling me this. And I’m sorry if your telling me this might result in a jinxing coming your way.”

  Nigel sniffed a tiny laugh. “I’d only be jinxed, Clyde, if what I told ye was something I felt bad about. Yer secret is one I’m happy to part with.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. But if you’ll excuse me, I believe I have to step outside for a moment. I need to be alone, take the remainder of the night to think this over.”

  Nigel’s smile soured into a grimace. “I’m sorry, lad. It had to be said. I couldn’t very well send ye into the mines without telling ye. I know ye will do what needs to be done, but if I didn’t tell ye and—fates forbid—ye were killed . . . well, I just don’t know what would’ve come of me. I’d probably do myself in if ye died not knowing. And it may sound selfish, but I had to tell ye before ye left in the morning.”

  “I understand,” Clyde said and got to his feet, his head a bit whirly. “Thank you for telling me. I mean it. But I need to take as much time as I can to mull this over before the others wake up.”

  Without another word, he stepped away, out the front door, and gently closed it behind him. He couldn’t get to the porch swing fast enough. He dropped into it and rested his head in both hands. Too much, too much, too much was all he could think.

  Chapter 30

  The Plea, the Demand, the Order

  Night was nearly over by the time the Executioner returned to the palace. The elevator platform locked in place, and the three guardsmen appointed to watch it were plainly perplexed.

  One stepped forward. “Where are the others? Was there some sort of mishap?”

  Vidurkis shoved past him. “One side, boy.”

  He crossed the palace courtyard and took to the front steps. Navigating this place would be easy even with his eyes closed. The blond stone steps, the echoing halls, and even the iron rings on each of the palace’s doors were like old friends to the Executioner.

  Besides the lack of people in the courtyard, something else was different. There was the low drone of a single Patrol auto, and long cables ran from its open engine compartment to the courtyard stairs and in through the open door.

  He paid it little mind. He left the path of wires crossing into the communications room and took to the second and third staircases, walking in total darkness for a few spells, passing the countless busts and statues of kings and queens drenched in shadow. Without knocking, he entered Pitka Gorett’s private chambers in the palace’s stronghold.

  Gorett, looking as if he’d aged about twenty years since Vidurkis had last seen him, sat up at his desk, setting aside his radio. He goggled at the Executioner, then his desk.

  The radio squawked, “Sir, he didn’t come back with any of the men. Do you want us to apprehend him? Sir?”

  “Mallencroix. You’re back. What a relief.” Gorett sprang out of his seat, stopped, and stacked a few sheets of blank parchment on his work, covering the typewriter, as if Vidurkis were some sort of ape and wouldn’t notice.

  He turned down the radio as the guardsman was saying, “I believe he went into the palace. Should we do something, or do you wish him to remain alive? Sir?”

  He flapped around the desk toward Vidurkis, frantic, smiling, waving his hands about. He urged the Executioner, “Speak, man! Tell me what happened. Did you kill her? Let me get you a drink of water.” He was halfway to the sideboard, where a carafe of water and some glasses waited.

  Vidurkis said nothing, merely took a seat. He liked being able to ruffle Gorett so easily. He was sure he looked frightful, filthy from head to toe and covered in all of those mouse bites. He hadn’t bothered washing any of the blood off. He’d left it to dry into a brown, crackly sheet on his face and hands.

  “She’s not alone.” Vidurkis accepted the glass of water from Gorett but didn’t take a sip—didn’t dare take a sip, no matter how tempting the purified water was. He set it on Gorett’s desk. “She has an entire band with her: a pack of mice under some kind of fabrick, a pale man in a butler’s uniform, a Mouflon as well.”

  “We already know that. But did you kill her?”

  Vidurkis caught Gorett’s expression before he’d turned himself away to hide it. Ashamed of his fear, possibly. Vidurkis savored the idea that it wasn’t just little Margaret that Gorett feared but Vidurkis himself as well. The Executioner allowed himself a little smile, hearing the sheets of dried blood on his cheeks crack.

  Gorett turned away with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked out his giant windows toward the southern wards.

  Vidurkis gave his bad news without an ounce of care. “She’s gone back in.”

  Gorett’s beard did a little flip when he turned his head over his shoulder. “What?”

  “She’s gone into the mines.”

  Gorett’s snowy white beard flexed as he clenched his jaw. He turned again to, Vidurkis assumed, hide his panic, but his reflection still allowed the Executioner to view it. “What the hell is she up to? She could’ve left the island, built a raft or something, gone to the mainland, to Adeshka, told them what we’re doing here. But . . . she went back inside. To what end?”

  His tone was strange, as if he were heavily distracted by another project, as if he were feigning concern for what Margaret was up to. It was as if, given a few hours, the problem would resolve itself by some other means.

  Vidurkis didn’t like playing second fiddle. But so long as he was here and expected to give answers and updates, he played along. He couldn’t very well tell him nothing. He thought of Gorett as an infant in that moment, wrestling and wailing and in need of the teat. He indulged but kept it brief.

  “I chased them into the Kobbal Mines. My way was blocked. They might have some friends in there. They seemed prepared for it, at least. I couldn’t get through. I got the Mouflon with my gray light, a heavy dose of it. The effects should slow them down, but I’m afraid unless I get to him in the next two days, my usefulness will be drastically reduced.” Now Vidurkis was acting. He wasn’t worried at all about getting to the Mouflon. He just wanted Gorett to be scared he might soon be down a man, his most useful one.

  Gorett faced him, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Come off it, Pitka.” The chair creaked beneath Vidurkis as he sat up, as much as it hurt his tired legs to do so. “You know how it works. He wanted to add, Leave me t
o it, fool. I know what I’m doing, and nearly did let the thought fall out from his lips. He prepared for Gorett’s next salvo of questions.

  Gorett merely grunted, took his seat behind his desk, the lush leather grunting under him, and folded his hands. He leaned forward until his forehead was pressing upon his thumbs. “Fabrick and its endless rules and backwards curses,” he said, muffled.

  “I need to kill the Mouflon,” Vidurkis stated, pulling his leg up to cross it at the knee. He had to deliberately keep himself from picking up the glass of water and downing it. “They’re in the mines, the entrance blocked. They are undoubtedly halfway up into Geyser’s stem by now. If I could go down to them, meet them halfway . . .”

  Gorett looked up, pink thumbprints in his forehead fading away. “Perhaps they’ve already met their end?” he suggested excitedly. “Maybe the Blatta have done the job for us? Do you think that could be the case?”

  “The clouds in the corners of my eyes say otherwise.” Vidurkis sighed. “I have no choice. I’ll have to go in after them.”

  “Can’t we just give you some of the others?” Gorett gestured at his personal gray light lantern on the edge of his desk. The shielding was up, and the dark thing in the fluid bobbed, waiting for the electrical charge that’d make it blast its own, less powerful gray light. Vidurkis sneered at it.

  “I don’t want your duplicates. I have my gift. I want to keep it as is.”

  Gorett spied the lantern, silent for a while. “Very well. Take your men down with some explosives.” He slid the shielding onto the glass shaft of the lantern. “Do what you must.”

  Vidurkis sat forward. “Chasing where they’ve already been would be a waste of time. I’ll go where they aim to come out—cut them off at the pass.”

  Gorett frowned, then went saucer eyed. “What are you suggesting, exactly?”

  Vidurkis stared back, blinked.

  “No.” Gorett shook his head, his hair swinging in silver banners in front of his face.

  A smell found its way over the desk to Vidurkis’s nostrils. The king hadn’t been bathing, apparently.

  Gorett slammed his hands on his desk. “Absolutely not. You expect me to allow you to open a hole in the platter, possibly let the Blatta in here with us, just so you can go after the Mouflon? Take your curse like a man, Vidurkis. Let the Blatta execute them. You’ll be taken care of after all this is resolved. I’ll grant your freedom. Once I have the wendal stone, I’ll ensure you have a great home in the best end of the residential ward, where you’ll never be bothered again.”

  Looking at the glass of water staring him in the face, Vidurkis swept it off the desk onto the floor. He’d kill Gorett, certainly, but not now. “He has to die,” he said slowly, grabbing Gorett’s attention from the mess he’d just made. “I won’t allow some filthy Mouflon to rob me of my gift. You don’t understand my sister. She will get them up here. Either way, the Blatta will breach the surface. If you let me go down after them, we’ll be able to control the situation. I’ll make one hole instead of several, as they undoubtedly plan to do.”

  Gorett looked at Vidurkis as if he were about to say something, but then he looked past him.

  Vidurkis listened, half expecting to hear a firearm’s hammer being thumbed.

  But Gorett’s expression wasn’t that of smug relief—the face he’d most likely develop if he ever managed to get one up on Vidurkis—but one of red-faced shame. Vidurkis savored Gorett’s slapped look for a second, then twisted in his chair to see who’d interrupted their talk.

  In the open doorway stood a single guardsman private.

  Gorett waved him in, cut his eyes at Vidurkis to silence his mad plans. “What is it?”

  The guardsman clicked his heels, bowed. “My lord, the communications array is up. Do you have the message prepared?”

  Vidurkis watched Gorett, who eyed the covered typewriter.

  “Message?” Vidurkis asked with a smirk, sitting up. “Who are you summoning here now, Pitka?”

  “No one.” Gorett shifted the pages and furtively extended a sheet to the private between two fingers. “Formalities. Arranging a supply drop is all.”

  “My arse.” Vidurkis snatched the paper with a snap.

  Gorett sighed, allowing the Executioner to read the note. The private stood by uselessly, gaze darting about the room. No one had told him he could leave, so he remained trapped here.

  When Vidurkis finished, he balled the page up and threw it at Gorett. The trash bounced off his beard and landed on the surface of the desk in a tight knot.

  “The Odium,” Vidurkis said, spittle flying. “You’re proposing a treaty with them? You call yourself a man of power, a man of action—and yet here you are, begging that degenerate band of pirates for assistance? Have you seen what they did to this city?”

  “I thought you’d get along charmingly,” Gorett said, bold now with a guardsman nearby, “seeing as how you subscribe to the same delusional faith. The Mechanized Goddess who says that the first screwdriver ever devised is a holy relic to be cherished for all time and that weapons are but tools and we, the gun wielders, but tools for her—”

  “It’s the first wrench. And I’d recommend, when you’re in my presence, you leave her out of it.”

  Gorett sighed and gestured at the guardsman. “Leave us.”

  As soon as they were alone again, he stepped around the desk, avoiding the broken glass and spilled water, and sat in the chair next to Vidurkis. Together they faced the tall windows behind the desk, the cloudless blue sky. Vidurkis couldn’t help but think that at any moment Gorett was going to use that natural tableau of the surrounding galaxy just beyond the atmosphere as a speech to say—

  “You can come, too. We can all go. Let the girl and the Mouflon do what they will. They won’t be able to get any of that wendal stone out of the ground. And even if they did, the entire island’s on quarantine. No one will help them move it off-world. The Odium, once paid, will treat us well. They must. We’ll return once the Blatta go back down when their food supply is gone.”

  “You’re promising that wendal stone to everyone, aren’t you, Pitka? There won’t be any left by the time you’re through. You probably have every square inch of that deposit covered in IOUs. If you allow me to do what I want, none of that haggling with those animals will be necessary.”

  Vidurkis looked to his left. The throne. Black metal, beautifully wrought, with numerous inset gems and spirals of iridescent glass. Then, letting his head drop onto the seat back, Vidurkis saw the mural of King Pyne with Lady Susanne, with the geyser behind them, both clad in heavy-plated armor. Together they cradled a blade of emerald metal, one rumored to be crafted from the tempered marrow of dragons. At their feet, their children. Four little cherubs with their faces obscured by the artist, either with tufts of flowing black hair stirred by an ethereal wind or the hanging spiked branch of a chark bush. Those four, all seemingly ghostly pale in comparison to their parents’ rather olive complexions, were the rightful heirs to the Geyser throne who were still, last he heard, missing. Had Gorett had them assassinated? The oldest, if he hadn’t died of respiratory problems, couldn’t have been older than twenty this year. Making the others eighteen, seventeen, and sixteen respectively. Children. All this—the throne, the painting of the likely dead Pyne offspring—haunted Vidurkis faintly. It wasn’t so much the evil Gorett had perpetrated that bothered him but the desperation in the act itself. That he’d do anything to keep the lion’s share on his plate and his alone.

  When Vidurkis leveled his gaze back to the man next to him, he realized Gorett had been giving him a long stare. His tone was dry, pitiful, and small. “I mean to survive this by any means necessary. As much as I want you to retain your eyesight and your power, I’m afraid I cannot sacrifice my safety and the safety of my men. The Odium will work for us, as long as I promise them payment. I’ve seen the wendal stone down there. It’s an enormous deposit—biggest ever recorded, an entire continent of it right under our heels.
And it’s mine—and yours, if you just cooperate with me.”

  Kill him now, the Goddess chimed to Vidurkis in his mind, as she sometimes did. He is as useless as an auto with no wheels. Treat him as the scrap he is.

  But he resisted. She had a plan, indeed, but he wanted Gorett around a little bit longer. Just as a means to keep things stable up here. Plus, they’d most likely turn on him—Executioner or no—if he slayed the king. And then who would help him dig? Every piece in the clockwork had a purpose.

  “I sacrifice my abilities for no payment,” Vidurkis said, “whether it be wendal stone or a home in the finest corners of any residential ward. Some dark god deemed me fit to carry this gift, and I will not squander it for material goods I won’t even be able to see. You forbid me to tunnel, and I will do it anyway.”

  “Have you shared this insane plan with your team? What did they say about you getting them killed in the process?” Gorett stood, walked to the window, apparently done trying to appeal to Vidurkis as if they were just a couple of mates.

  The Executioner watched Gorett’s back, assuming what he saw out there—that among the parked Patrol autos, there’d not be a single mechanical walker returned from the ones they took. And how there might seem to be fewer men than usual running in place for evening drills. As expected, Gorett turned back with horror written on his face.

  “You . . .”

  “They were slowing me down.”

  “Has that poison in your eyes seeped into your mind?”

  Vidurkis stood and dusted off some dirt clinging to his uniform, hiked the rifle strap higher onto his shoulder—ignoring its plea for use—and said, “Send your men to the keep. We’re digging immediately. You tell them to turn on me, and I’ll rattle up a mutiny on you, let them know you’re planning to abandon them.” He marched across the chamber floor.