by Andrew Post
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
The bug rider growled. “Chik. Non-Lulomba. Chick-chickity. Bzzzt.”
“Whoa now, fella. I come in peace. Or I fell in peace, rather.”
He felt the prick of an arrow at his back and turned to see another emaciated man with a bow drawn. At the edge of his flashlight’s glare, another arrived and another and another. Last, beyond the circle of those surrounding him, he heard confident strides, heavier than the rest. Once the figure made a full circle, the man wearing the darkness as a cover moved close enough to be seen. He was enormous.
Flam squinted. It was a Mouflon with a great beard reaching toward his knees, nearly obscuring his face entirely. Not any Mouflon Flam recognized, that much was for certain. But, whoever he was, he’d evidently been down here a long time and had not plucked his quills to write anyone for just as long, as evidenced by a spiky black crown of barbs standing nearly a meter off his head.
Flam’s heart raced. He opened his mouth, but words failed him. All he could do was stand agape as the Mouflon stared back over the line of bug riders. His face was hidden by both shadow and wild fur. He could be just about any Mouflon under all that, but something about him—the familiar curl of the horns, perhaps even his smell . . .
“Who are you?” the voice was tired and reedy but familiar. Different from how Flam remembered it.
His uncle had been down here for a very long time indeed.
After trying three separate times to uncoil enough rope of her threads and only ending up in pieces, Nevele drew herself together and crouched at the edge where Flam had tumbled over. He’d wandered out of sight, and now not even the faint sparkle of his flashlight could be seen down there. She stood and faced Clyde.
Rohm was perched on his shoulder, and he fed him a piece of cave moss.
“I hate to say it, but I think we should press on without him,” she said.
Clyde grimaced. “What? You can’t be serious.”
Nevele brushed her knees off. “I don’t want to upset you, but my brother apparently can do some pretty bad things with his gray light now. And if that’s true, what Flam was saying about my br—Vidurkis—being able to somehow make him do things, we can’t entirely trust Flam. I mean, look at the way he lashed out at you.” She brushed a thumb under the wound on his cheek. “And what about all these cliffs and random drop-offs? It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to have someone with us we can’t entirely rely on.”
Clyde pulled away from her hand.
“Maybe you should lean over the edge and yell down there that you care about him so you can erase him from your mind.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this.”
“Make things easier.” Nevele dropped her shoulders. “Wow, forgive me. That was out of line.”
Clyde agreed. It was, but he merely nodded.
“Listen, all he cares about is the wendal stone anyway. He said so himself.” She gestured at the cliff. “We could hear him down there. He’s safe. Maybe he’ll get what he’s after. We’ll come back for him once we stop Vidurkis and Gorett.”
“Is that what this is all about to you? Revenge?”
Nevele stared for a moment. “Gorett had Mr. Wilkshire killed. Your Mr. Wilkshire. And your father. Do I need to remind you of that? Besides, if you’re heir to the throne, you kind of have to be there when he dies.”
She gestured at Commencement, nestled in Clyde’s hip holster. “That thing wasn’t made entirely for self-defense, you know. It’s also intended as an impeachment device for when things get out of control. Back when it was a sword, they’d use it to lop off the heads of bad kings. You know, just like the one we have now.”
“I’m not going to kill him. I want him put away in a dark cell, somewhere deep. As I was, all those years—and you. No, murdering him is not the answer. If I’m going to be king, and if I have any say in it, I want a kingdom where bloodshed isn’t allowed. It’s never made anything better.”
“He’s corrupt. Irreparably so. If anyone deserves death, it’s him.”
“No,” Clyde shouted. “There has to be a better way. We should try and figure problems out instead of just . . . beating them into resolution.”
“So we’ll pull down Gorett’s bloomers and give him a spanking instead?”
“Don’t be like that. You want to be a violent person, fine.”
“What are you saying? We split up, go our different routes?”
“Perhaps.”
“Don’t be a child.” Stepping forward, she slipped a hand to Clyde’s side and pulled Commencement out of the holster. He tried to snatch it back, but she was too quick. She aimed it out over the open cavern with one eye closed. She spun it around by its trigger guard and somehow managed to shift it as it was still spinning. When she stopped it, she held it by the barrel, the handle pointed out at him. He stared at the grip, the design of the two souls swirling around the embossed image of the sword.
“It’s not about revenge or violence anymore,” she said. “It’s about fighting for something, about taking a stand for what’s right and true. We’re in short supply here—those of us who know how Geyser is supposed to be. It’s just us three and Flam down there—once he’s right in the head again, but even then I’m not totally sure.”
Clyde said nothing.
“I kid,” Nevele said and waved a hand. “But it’s just us carrying on what Mr. Wilkshire and your parents stood for. They understood what goodness was, what it meant to be true and earnest and just. We have to keep fighting, if not for them, for the things they believed in.”
Clyde took the pistol from her hand. He held it in his palms and looked at the images molded into it, the peaks catching the flashlight glare and the valleys accepting the shadows. Finally, he nodded and replaced Commencement in his holster. He held the craggy wall for stability and peered over the edge. “You really think he’ll be fine down there?”
She joined him at the lip of the inky gully. “I swear it. Even if I have to go down after him when all this is said and done, he’ll be fine. If anyone can withstand a Blatta bite, it’s a Mouflon.”
“All right,” Clyde said reluctantly. “Let’s keep going. We’ll find where Vidurkis sent those birds through and hopefully hit the sewers before the end of the day.” He sighed. “Of course, getting through that spot’s going to prove difficult without our guide.”
“You have a point there.” She grimaced. “I hadn’t thought of that. Think if we threw some parchment down there and a pen he might be able to whip up a map for us real quick?”
Rohm piped up. “I can always scout ahead, Mr. Clyde. Check each sewer tunnel and report back to you.”
“I appreciate your dedication. Prepare to be heralded as First Mouse of Geyser when we get through here.”
“I like the sound of that very much, Mr. Clyde.”
“Sorry, you complainy turd,” Nevele spoke toward the gap. “Guess you’ll have to go without a few more morning suns.” She patted the wall. “I think I’ll actually miss him.” She walked on, clicking a light on and trudging up the next incline.
“We’ll be back.” Clyde reassured their displaced friend and patted the same spot Nevele had.
Within just a few steps, Clyde felt awful for abandoning his friend. Fresh air wafted down from the tunnels, giving him some relief. The surface waited ahead.
Greenspire looked his age, which Flam estimated to be roughly a hundred twenty years, which even for a Mouflon was old. Meech himself was said to have reached a hundred ninety when he died. Flam studied his uncle. He showed all the signs of a Mouflon getting close to meeting Meech: the grayness in the eyebrows and the hairs on the tips of his ears, the quills that looked brittle and hollow. His horns had grown unbidden and were now long, giant coils jutting out of the sides of his head like stretched, broken springs of a shattered clock. He was bent and walked with a rod crudely fashioned from stone.
Greenspire cautiously stepped near Flam and, muzzle buried in the fur of
Flam’s shoulder, sniffed at him with flaring, wet nostrils. “You smell familiar.” He moved around to his back and sniffed his neck. Back before the Mouflon race had language, it was said they used smells to describe how they felt, able to shift the aroma this way and that to tell entire stories about themselves.
But Flam didn’t feel like speaking with stink right now. Never learned how, anyway. He turned to face his snuffling uncle and took him by the shoulders. “It’s me, Uncle. It’s Tiddle Flam!”
“Tiddle.” Greenspire squinted. “I’m afraid I don’t know any Tiddle Flam except for my sorry excuse for a nephew who’s probably rotting in a cell in Adeshka. Clickity-chak. Chick-chak. Bzzzt.”
Groaning, Flam bellowed, “That’s me. I’m your nephew. And it was only a misdemeanor.”
Greenspire sniffed. “Pucky. A whole load of bear cat pucky.”
“Come on. Listen to me, would you?”
“Well, you may smell like a Mouflon, but you sure as plummets don’t talk like one. You use big words—man dialect. Clickity. The big, stupid hubbub jibber-jabber of man! Bzzzt. No, I don’t believe for one second you’re a Mouflon. Chik.” Greenspire turned on his hoof to push through the bug riders.
They parted for him, dipping their chins to their chests reverently as they stepped aside.
“If anyone’s not talking like a Mouflon, it’s you,” Flam shouted after him. “What’s with all the nonsense words? When you fell down here, did you break your fall with your head?”
Arrows were readied.
“Oh, piss off with that,” Flam said.
His uncle stopped in his tracks and turned around.
The bug riders waited for his command.
Greenspire walked back through them toward Flam, pushing his face close to his nephew’s. “It was a blessing I ended up here. A blessing.” He let the words sink in before turning once more to leave. It seemed final, this parting comment.
He slowly retreated into the gloom, leaving his minions to do with Flam as they would.
“Dear Uncle Greenspire, it’s a glorious morning, and the suns are out. I had a dream last night about working with you in the sewers and that one time when we went under the market district to fix a clogged line. I remember you hit it with your chisel, and suddenly both of us were sprayed with stinky water. It wasn’t until later you told me what that stinky water really was. I don’t think I’ve ever screamed like that since. But I remember you laughed and laughed . . .” Flam looked up.
Greenspire hadn’t taken another step away but was frozen in his tracks. He wore a big smile, one Flam knew so well. The ancient Mouflon stepped forward and threw his arms around his nephew.
“I remember that.” He laughed and laughed.
The bug riders took their cue and lowered their bows and replaced arrows in their quivers.
With an arm around Flam’s shoulder, Greenspire led the newcomer across the wendal stone deposit. No one else used torches or flashlights to navigate, but Flam ran his flashlight beam around and saw an entire ramshackle city built at the fringes of the deposit. Their conversation had had an audience of thousands, none of whom he’d known were there. All watched him, and he watched them right back.
With a simple wave and an announcement, “My nephew is here,” they all went back to life as normal, blind and hunched and secretive.
Chapter 39
A Mole Hole Rodeo
If Aksel closed his eyes, he could swear his legs fell off hours ago. Something in him persisted nonetheless, and he continued to pedal. Once every three hours, a boy no older than fifteen would come in with a pressurized bottle and squirt stale water in their mouths and down their backs, give them a look both curious and apologetic, and be gone.
Ricky seemed to be doing okay. For an idiot. He was thin, and the heat didn’t seem to bother him much. He’d always had energy reserves like no one else.
To Aksel’s left, however, Neck Steve wasn’t faring well. A chime would sound whenever one of the pedalers slowed too much and the cooling cycler began to overheat, so Aksel never had to give him any encouragement. Not that he would’ve had the breath to anyway.
A speaker mounted to the ceiling kicked on. “All right, fellas.” It was Dreck’s voice, tinny and overamplified. “Just a bit farther. We’re about a hundred kilometers from our destination, so keep them feet moving. Over and out.”
But something happened next that Aksel was sure Dreck hadn’t intended.
“Still got ten on the guy with the patch?” Dreck asked.
He’d left the microphone on.
Proboscis’s voice was muffled: something about going double or nothing on the fat one.
“Either way, we get to Mole Hole, get fueled up, pick up the warhead, have the rodeo to keep the blokes entertained and morale high, and then it’s off to Geyser to pick up our guest.”
Aksel’s legs fumbled, his feet momentarily losing the pedals. He got them back on and continued pedaling.
Ricky smiled and said between gulps of air, “Good save.”
Aksel ignored the compliment.
Another pirate came through on the loudspeaker. “I still can’t believe you’re going to trust him. All due respect, Captain, but I mean, why bother? Why not just send Gorett down with the rest of the city?”
“Is that the sound of doubt I hear in your lovely voice, Colin?”
“No, perish the thought, Captain. I’d never. But what if they say we kidnapped him? He’s a king. I just think it might turn out to be more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Well, I’ll do the thinking if you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine . . . but just tell me why. He’s a deserter. A king, perhaps, aye, but this will make the second time he’s turned his back on his own city, if the rumors are true. Who’s to say he won’t do the same to us the minute he gets the chance?”
“Would you shut it, mate? You’re giving me the brain hurts,” Dreck snarled. “Just trust me when I say taking on a king as stowage is necessary. Couldn’t have worked out better, really. Rumor goes that the minute you get the crown, they tell you all o’ Gleese’s secrets. And if that gossip holds water, that means Gorett’s one o’ the few who knows where Father Time is, as in precise coordinates. And you can’t exactly buy that kind of information.”
Aksel pedaled, sweat dripping from his chin to his knees. Father Time?
“Forgive me, Captain, but I just think looking for Höwerglaz is a waste of time.”
They’re chasing legends? Aksel thought, dismayed. The Odium were rumored to be off their nut, sure, but wasting fuel to scour the planet for urban legends? Even Susanne, despite being woven, used to laugh every time anyone in the Fifty-Eighth asked whether she believed.
“There you go again, thinking.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“It defies any logic to believe Höwerglaz isn’t alive and well. A man with so much potential function in this world? The Goddess would never allow him to die. If his gift is as it’s said, there’s no way the man could ever die, either because of how he’s woven or by the Goddess’s plan.”
Proboscis muttered a line from the Mechanized Goddess’s decree.
“Wait. Can you hear me talking right now?” Dreck said. “Didn’t I—? Oh, blast it all.”
The microphone went dead. Above their heads in the engine room, Aksel heard banging footfalls, things being knocked over, and muffled shouts.
Aksel turned and glanced to either side of him. Ricky and Neck Steve were panting and bent over the handlebars of their machines, their gazes darting.
Ricky looked at Aksel.
“Forward. Just keep going, all right?” Aksel said between huffs. “We’ll get through this.”
Neck Steve started speaking to someone unseen. Aksel figured he was praying to the Mechanized Goddess, until he reached a particular line in his panting plea, eyes locked on the far wall. “I made a terrible mistake. I’m sorry, Mama, but I think I screwed up again.”
When the Magic Carpet heaved,
rocked backwards, and then rumbled through turbulence, Aksel knew they were descending. The ship came to a rest, and all around him the engines clicked and deactivated. The cooling cycler issued a chirp as its green light blinked a series of times and went dead, signaling that it was okay for them to stop. Aksel couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything, but the minute his legs were allowed to stop, he threw up.
The same young man with the water bottles shuffled in, sidestepped Aksel’s puddle of foamy sickness, and unchained them. Aksel could see it in Neck Steve’s eyes: he wanted to throttle this boy to death but didn’t have the energy. They were guided out of the Magic Carpet into the gleaming morning light.
“We’re in Mole Hole,” Ricky hissed through horrifically dry, peeling lips.
The town was so small it could barely be called an outpost. A street with buildings flanked it on either side, nothing taller than two stories. Wood plank sidewalks, awnings, here and there a water collector, and the only sound was the occasional staccato scream.
The pirates had clearly disembarked long before Aksel, Ricky, and Neck Steve and set to their grisly work at once.
A few bodies lay in the street. A group of men chased a young woman through town, shooting at the sky to scare her. A man hung by a noose from the bell tower of a church, his body glowing with flames.
Dreck stood at the bottom of the ramp in a rectangle of shade made by the Magic Carpet’s wings, too busy to pay any mind to the recruits. He manned the pump that sucked the town’s fuel reserves through a spigot in the street. Between glances at the pressure dials, he watched a large bullet-shaped object being wheeled out through the front doors of Mole Hole’s armory. The massive, black warhead cut parallel lines in the dust as it was pushed along on a small cart meant for much lighter loads. The pirates guided it along, grunting with the effort of getting it up the ramp and inside the craft. Dreck turned to watch it pass and finally noticed the recruits standing—barely standing—behind him.
