by Lee Bond
“Well,” Garth grumbled, “they’re fucking stupid and I can’t believe you made me travel this way for so fucking long. Go on, then. Let’s get this lurching fucking monstrosity huffing and snorting towards Ickford. Ask your questions and I’ll ask mine.”
Barnabas released the catch holding the train in place, planting a hand on the side of the first box as he always did. He nudged the simple stick that controlled the even simpler drive train, angling it a bit so that by the time they came close to the crop of boulders some three hundred feet away they wouldn’t have to do a sharp turn.
“Tell me, lad,” Barnabas grinned at the memory of Garth flying through the air, bellowing and shrieking like a little girl, “Tell me true. Did you intend on building a small cannon?”
Garth shook his head. ‘Cannon’ didn’t even get close to describing what was strapped to his back. He was fucking lucky to be alive. “No. No, old man, I did not. I just wanted a sniper rifle. To shoot things from far away.”
“Well, young sir,” Barnabas flicked a fly from his face, “you achieved that quite spectacularly. D’ye ken why that happened yet?”
“Hadn’t given it much thought, to be honest.” Garth rumbled low in his throat, reluctant to revisit the memory. Constructed similarly to the shotgun –save, obviously, for the heart power source- the weapon was as close to a frickin’ gauss rifle than anything else and was far and away more powerful than could’ve been realistically expected.
Not to mention dangerous. Holy fuck, was it dangerous. Almost to the point where Garth wasn’t entirely sure he’d use it ever again.
After firing the bloody dangerous weapon, Barnabas had taken turns alternately scolding and chiding him, all while yanking him loose from the trees with a long gaff hook, demanding in one breath to understand what the fuck he’d been thinking and bellowing for him to be bloody damned safer next time around.
When all had settled and the source of the sniper rifle’s power had been awkwardly and sullenly revealed, Old Barnie had flown into a brand new tizzy of spastic fury all over.
Was it his fault he’d failed to realize a fully-formed Dark Iron heart harvested from a true, proper gearhead was one of the rarest and most complex things anyone, anywhere under The Dome had ever seen?
Kind of. Garth wouldn’t admit under torture that he’d totally screwed the pooch, but there were two things that weren’t his problem. One, even assuming he’d gone ‘hey, yeah, this is super rare, I should tread lightly’ the power output of the goddamn thing was off the fucking charts. Two, any scurrilous and bitchy old fucking smiths in the area should’ve opened their goddamn mouths and been all ‘hey, by the way, that thing can blow everything around you to smithereens if you were, perchance, to use it in, say, a gun, hey wot, hey, don’t you know my son?’.
“As I mentioned to earlier, as I was pulling you from the trees, a metallic heart is one of the rarest and more treasured items that can be … harvested from a gearhead, my young fella-me-lad.” Barnabas thought of something so powerful being in a gun, and shivered a bit ‘neath his heavy coat. That ‘sniper’ rifle needed dealing with nearly as quick as Nickels. “In a human being, it’s the center of life, hey? The pumper shifts blood all over the body. Deposit something like that in a clockwork creation and that thing nearly takes on a life of its own. Dark Iron takes to things such as that with a passion, it does. Hearts, when they’re found, go into tools or art or anything save weapons. Truth be told, you’ll be taking your life into your hands –literally- every time you think to use it. May I offer a piece of advice?”
Garth thought of the sniper rifle on his back. Was it done changing into a cannon, or, as Barnabas seemed to imply, would using it more often bring reveal more differences? The Kin’kithal warrior grinned mirthfully. “Sure. Shoot.”
“Oh come now.” Barnabas snorted. “That were easy. My advice is this; dismantle it. ‘tis ruint now it’s got the heart in it. Other than the pumper, them pieces can’t be reclaimed and that’s the long and short of it. If anything, spend the time, find a way to put the pumper in your armor. We’ll hold off Ickford long enough for that to happen.”
There. He’d made a peace offering. One so abysmally bothersome Barnabas Blake worried he’d lost his mind. Nickels’ armor was already a masterpiece. Putting a Heart into it would most definitely cause something strange and terrible to born ‘neath The Dome, yet even that were preferable to a Heart-fueled cannon.
Garth made a big show of considering Barnabas’ suggestion. Had he been aware of the Heart’s properties in advance, using it to power the armor would’ve been the right way to go.
With everything he was likely to encounter en route to Arcadia, though… having such a massive deterrent close to hand was an advantage you just didn’t dismantle for spare parts.
Hell, he was already trying to solve the problem where he got chucked around like a ragdoll when it was fired. Thus far, two options presented themselves; one, obviously, involved bolting the deadly cannon down with heavy spikes. Doing so was a rational, reasonable solution to an overpowered weapon.
But it was also super-boring.
A better option –one that was more awesome, anyways- was to modify the armor by adding stabilizing clamps to the boots. With luck, they’d go kerchunk-kerchunk like he was some kind of battle mech.
“That’s a … possibility.” From the cool way Barnabas nodded, it was obvious the smith didn’t believe a damn word.
Whatever. Just as obvious was the fact that the two men had grown so incredibly frustrated with each other during their miserable expedition that they were more than eager to part ways forever; a screaming exclamation to prove that point was that Barnabas hadn’t once –over the last few days, at any rate- demanded the right to ‘investigate that which ails ye, laddie’.
Garth watched Ickford as they approached, putting what he needed to know about Ickford in order of priority; knowing Barnabas, it was highly likely the guy would go all sorts of lugubrious on insignificant matters while going dry as a desert when it came to important things before clamming up entirely.
First question. “Is Ickford unique in where it’s built? Do other Doors leading inwards have cities like this?”
Whatever else Agnethea was, when it came to building her city, she’d displayed a flair of brilliance in choosing her location. Situated right before a Door, the architect had procured for herself a nearly endless stream of customers with an equally endless supply of Kingsblood; gearheads and wardogs looking to move inward would instead find all sorts of reasons to squander away their carefully hoarded currency, only to wake up one morning realizing they had no Iron to pay for the next stage of their journey.
Disgruntled, broke, the gaggles would head back out into the wilds to begin Kingkilling once more, whereupon they’d find themselves in the same position again. Over and over, rinse and repeat until it was easier to admit they lived in Ickford than believe the illusion that the very next time they headed out they were for sure going to scrimp and save until they had the Iron for the toll.
At the very top of the Iron-run city? Agnethea. No last name, no funny addition like ‘Aunty’. Just Agnethea.
What sort of person was she, that she could –apparently- so easily hold sway of the wild and wooly place Ickford had to be?
“King’d shit a brick that were true, smith. Ickford be Ickford and were any other than Agnethea to make an attempt at civilizing the animals ‘twixt those walls, well, I do reckon our Dark Iron King would smite them all.” Barnabas hated Ickford. Thanks to the damned city, there weren’t more’n ten gearheads next level in –if they’d managed to survive Erg’s calamitous arrival- and that were abominable. No one was playing at the Gauntlet any longer. Sure, it made no matter at all as the end were nearly upon ‘em, but it still vexed Barnabas that Ickford had quite literally ruined everything, and in such a short period of time, to boot.
It amazed Barnabas that gearheads and wardogs were capable of living in relative harmony, surrou
nded on all sides as they were by the bulk of normal men and women as made up the population of the outer ring. Out here, so far away from purer Kingsblood, them as had the crudey-crude in their veins should be the nearest thing to raving lunatics clawing at their own throats out with insane rage, yet in foul Ickford…
It weren’t all peace and calm in there, naturally not given Agnethea’s own wicked nature. It were just that it were far less volatile than it should be.
Damn Agnethea. Barnabas ground his teeth in frustration. He would dance a jig upon the ashes of Ickford, wouldn’t he just?
“Earth to Barnabas, come in Barnabas.” Garth waved his hands at the thoughtful blacksmith. “Hey, pal. You hear me?”
“No.” Barnabas replied bluntly. “No. Ickford is unique in the whole of Arcade City. You will not find another place like it anywhere else.”
“You really, really hate this woman, don’t you? More than the city itself.” Garth couldn’t wait to meet Agnethea. Anyone who got on the old man’s tits as much as she did was bound to be the sort of woman he could get along with really well. If he was lucky, the two of them could join forces to drive the cranky fucker mad.
“No, Garth, I do not. Her city has had a negative effect on all the Estates, literally emptying them out by the dozen. It has all but ruined the traveling smith game.” Barnabas said, gripping an edge of a cube tightly.
“Ah!” Garth crowed. “She’s cut into your business! That explains a lot! Ohohoho!”
Barnabas pressed his lips together until they were thin lines. Just a half hour longer and he would be done. “Aught else you need to know, or is to be this capering foolishness for the duration?”
Garth sucked at a tooth. There were so many things he needed to know, and even more he wanted to learn. “One. No. Two things.”
The King glowered at Nickels. “Be certain, Master Nickels. I am tiring of this.”
Garth took the warning seriously. Though there were in fact a million things he wanted to ask, it was more than reasonable to assume Ickford would be home to those who would be more than willing to supply him with all the answers he could possibly hope for, making it even more reasonable to play it safe so this last stretch of road was void of heated arguments and ancient butthurt blacksmiths.
“Okeydokey, dude.” Garth thrust a chin at the towering black wall rising high above Ickford’s tallest buildings. “What’s it like, further in?”
“Oh, there’s nowt but rumor and idle speculation, my son. Them as move on can’t come back this way until they’ve made the change to Brigadier, and with Ickford shitting on the King’s dreams, there hain’t been a man or woman to make the effort in quite some time.” Barnabas looked sidewise at Garth. “’tis different but the same, seems to be most true. And I shall tell you this for free; I hain’t never considered moving inward before I met you and now you insist on moving inwards on your lonesome and won’t listen to reason, and so, sirrah, you are welcome to a most painful and lurid death at the hands of a beast this side of the Wall can but dream of. No matter how wondrous your armor, how powerful your weapons, the reality is, you is a shit companion and like as not you’ll wind up pissing someone off the moment you open that gobshite mouth of yours. And that’ll be the end of you.”
Garth blinked at the tirade, then burst out laughing. When he could, he clapped a hand on Barnabas’ solid shoulder. “That is the funniest damn thing I ever heard you say.”
The King shrugged his shoulder, dislodging Nickels’ unwanted hand quickly. “Spend your last coin wisely, boyo. I shall need to spend the last few minutes prior to our arrival considering how best to approach Agnethea. She and I parted on … poor terms.”
“Oh, I remember, I remember. You bring it up often enough.” Garth gestured grandly at their train. “What are we gonna do with all this crap when we get there? Ickford looks pretty damn full of buildings and stuff. Bet there’s only one main thoroughfare big enough to handle this train.”
“Call your own belongings crap if you must, Master Nickels,” Barnabas replied huffily, “but I assure you, all that is mine is worthy. But I suspect you’re worried more about your treasure more than anything else, no?”
Wasn’t that the truth? After siphoning off Barnabas’ extortionate fee for unencumbered use of his equipment and minus a few gallons here and there to fill up the smaller container Garth was carrying on his person, the gigantic cylinder –strapped down inside the middle cube and currently disguised to look like a jumble of junk- still held nearly fifty gallons.
A treasure indeed. With Ickford being the sort of place it appeared to be, it was inevitable that there would be two of Garth’s favorite things; crime, and criminals. Common sense shrieked that the sudden arrival of a galactic fuckton of Vicious Elixir would attract the attention of metalheaded freaks from all corners of the dank city.
But while Garth did indeed enjoy crime and criminals –there was no better way to get what you wanted, either through the exchange of goods and services or through ripping the bad guys off- it was the wrong kind of attention; he wanted to get in, see if Agnethea had anything to cure his ailment, and then get the fuck out when she proved –as he kind of believed- to be as useless a tit as Barnie. Once that was done, then he could hook up with whichever gaggle was least creepy and they could all go to Ickford together.
“Suppose you’re right,” Garth ignored Barnabas’ hectoring snort of laughter with dignity, “suppose I’m totally concerned some guys are gonna steal my shit. Or yours, for that matter, because you’ve got some fairly valuable stuff of your own. I’m sure if this place really is as shitty as you claim, what we’ve got could be sold to the highest bidder before coffee.”
Barnabas nudged the drive stick a bit, angling the train a bit more to the left. “For all comers, great and small, to the wonders of Ickford, space has been made available to store your precious items. Designed and maintained by the wondrous Queen of Ickford herself. Ringed around the gates, built directly into the walls that protect the nattering fools and minging morons cowering within, there are … well, I do believe vaults would be the best word to describe how things stand.” The blacksmith nodded. “Vaults. For a fee, you can rent one. So long as you pay that fee on a steady basis, you are the only one who can access said vault.”
“How is access controlled?” If Ickford’s vault situation was anything at all like an actual bank … With gearheads being the utter loons they were –loons with god-awful strength and a chronic case of ‘mine’ to go along with that strength- it was hard to believe any kind of bank in Arcade City could stay in operation for more than five minutes, let alone the sort of system Barnie was describing.
Garth knew better than most there wasn’t a vault in Existence that couldn’t be gotten into. It was just a matter of having the right key.
While Garth really was in all truth pushing his luck, Barnabas found he didn’t mind as much as he’d imagined; this kind of repartee, where he had the chance to belittle and otherwise bother Nickels for his lack of knowledge was mighty enjoyable, wasn’t it just?
The King mimed unlocking a door. “’tis a key system, my boon traveling companion, a key near as long as your forearm. Has to be, so that…”
“No one can pick the lock.” Garth stroked an imaginary beard. Agnethea wasn’t a slouch after all, it seemed. But front doors were for suckers and the inside man. “And the walls? Ultra-thick? Like, thicker than the thickest thing in Thickton? Because gearheads … man, Thumper was big enough to headbutt a moon out of orbit.”
Barnabas threw his arms wide. “Thick as all outdoors, Master Nickels. As all out of doors and then some more besides. Now let us…”
Garth interrupted. “What if someone does steal something? What happens then?”
“As Agnethea is in control, and has constructed the vaults herself, she has offered herself as guarantor.” Barnabas would rather talk about the wonders of The Dome, the intricacies of the Dark Iron Cloud generators, his secret plan to destroy the whole of
Everything than spend another moment on Agnethea, yet the King knew that by trying to steer the conversation away from the Obsidian Golem, all he would succeed in doing was bring the topic to her over and over again. Nickels was a contrary bastard and the sooner he learned what was what, the sooner he’d shut his trap. “If aught is stolen from a vault that is paid in full and the key has not been used to simply open the door, she will cover the loss.”
Barnabas tensed, waiting for the next question. He knew it was coming.
“Well, how does she know what’s in there?” Garth demanded. “I mean, I could say I’ve got a silver plated Tyrannosaurus Rex named Jordan tucked away next to my time-traveling DeLorean. Or, like, five berjillion pounds of gold. First, is she really that rich that she can replace Jordan and my car, and second, is she really that trustworthy?”
“I have no clue what a … what a Rex named Jordan is,” Barnabas countered hotly, shaking his head inwardly –all conversations with Nickels devolved into him talking about things no one else understood and him making words up-, “or a … a car, but in most cases, at least in Ickford, it isn’t about wealth, young Master Nickels, it’s about power. Within Ickford, Agnethea holds it all. Her and none else. If your vault is emptied out, she will simply send her men to collect. If that fails, she will replace it. And as far as someone like her can be, yes, she is trustworthy.”
“I noticed you didn’t answer my question about knowledge, Old Master Barnabas.” Garth had to give it to the blacksmith; for the entire time they’d been traveling together, the older man had held to this bombastic, over-the-top persona with a tight fist, revealing a different man only when they got into heated and passionate discussions about his ‘condition’ or the various ways King’s Will sucked. Then it was less gregarious pontification and more rabid vehemence.
“Indeed, this is true.” Barnabas sighed through his nose. Doubtless, the coming truth would be something Nickels would rather not hear. No one really did, but, if you were the sort of person who insisted on being fully and properly reimbursed should you lose anything from one of her vaults and whatever had been stolen was unrecoverable, it was the only way.
