by R J Theodore
Required at every function. Hankirk was being watched.
It had to be done right. There were so few left to trust in Diadem. It was the Veritors who had moved against the late emprices, acting to secure even more power for the Yu’Nyun invaders under the naive illusion that the aliens would share it. Pulling every lever they had crafted throughout the court in order to cover it up and keep those few uncorrupted politicians from getting close to the truth.
It was only midday, but Hankirk had not slept the night before, kept up by the pain in his arm and the roil of his thoughts, and the affair in the subbasement left him feeling weak. He denied himself a yawn while under the pointed stare of Patron Demir.
Demir paused at the doorway, not looking over his shoulder but making it obvious Hankirk was expected to follow.
In the hours before dawn, he’d decided it was time to put his plans into motion. He would take the ring and escape the city. He had to get it away from the Veritors, who would only use it for their shortsighted ends. Its power must be used for the greater good.
“Agreed, sir. It must be done properly.” No more waiting.
Hankirk did not spare a last glance for Silus Cutter’s ring on his way out.
Chapter 4
The twilight tunnels of Lippen swallowed Talis as she headed back below ground. She wanted to stay along the shore and keep a watch for Bill’s ship, surrounded above and below by open skies and cold winds, but she needed to distract herself from the worry, not gnaw at it. She was eager to join Tisker, Sophie, and Dug. Eager to spend their quick supper going over the plans. The best part of her day, even though it took place in Lippen, with the weight of the island all around them. Above them. Ready to crush them. Not for the first time, she considered camping in the woods at the base of Vuur Artak.
It was dangerous, though not because of any threat from the volcano. The caldera had a crown of thick forest as testament to its generations-long peace with Lippen’s engineers.
The danger was not fire—the Rakkar people had thoroughly domesticated the mountain—but teeth. The pipsqueak theropods that made their home there, called ‘tocks’ by the locals, would howl and bark to mark tribal skirmishes or the start of a hunt. The sound gave Talis chills on those evenings she worked late enough to hear it, a harrowing counterpoint to the pleasant evening gold and purple streaking the glow pumpkins on their distant station islands. Just as Onaya Bone had given form and life to the zalika before she designed the Bone people out of sand, Arthel Rak had created the tocks and made a divine mess of it before moving on to make a people in his image and give them his name. It was a funny thing, to consider the fickleness and failures of their gods as they played at alchemy, creating the world to suit their whims after blowing it to shards and shattered island nations, the result of magic and ego and greed. The semi-intelligent lizards were smaller than their mermaid cousins, but just as wild, and organized enough to be more dangerous.
Even so, Talis had pondered the practicality of setting up tents in the forest. As part of his work in Lippen, Dug regularly cleared the ventilation shafts that helped release volcanic pressure and gases to keep the city habitable. He’d climbed to the top of those shafts, level with the jungle floor, and had pointed out that Arthel Rak’s beasties had never tasted Cutter folk. Their soft-skinned crew would look like cream puffs compared to the Rakkar chitin armor, and the knee-high tocks would all want a bite. Dug was ever the voice of reason when all Talis wanted was to see the stars.
That meant if Talis wanted to live above ground, they’d have to invest some money into it, which would be akin to moving in. Settling down. No. Their discomfort sharpened their focus on the course ahead.
As the Lippen city gate—a stone monstrosity that required two cranks to move—closed behind her, she stood to one side of the entrance and pulled off her jacket as her vision adjusted. Brass-framed sconces set high in the walls offered insignificant light. Vuur Artak provided Lippen with enough geothermal energy to run a city five times the size, yet the illumination was kept minimal, the golden lamps too weak to push back the darkness in the tunnels. Talis would swear the night setting on Wind Sabre’s chart lamps had been brighter.
Anxiety over Bill’s failure to appear crawled up her spine with sharpened claws, but it was a full minute before color and detail emerged from vibrant tapestries hung against the smooth stone walls. The artful patterns leapt from one handwoven panel, across the spaces between, and onto the next, forming one long, evolving mural along the downward-sloping tunnel. Quartz prisms, suspended from the arched ceiling overhead, refracted the minimal light back in ripples of color that broke the monotony of the textured black tiles beneath her feet. Talis walked through the cheerful spotlights, determined to do whatever she could to break her dour mood before it set into a proper wallow.
The peace of the quiet entrance corridor ended several lengths below where it intersected with Kasrespazi, the enormous hub cave that housed the towering timepiece, Ra-Kaz, and where the tunnel networks converged. Here, the stone tiles were inlaid with sparkling patterns of mica flakes, leading traffic around the massive timepiece that coordinated and choreographed the entire city’s logistics. The ticking and turning device dominated the room and threatened to scrape the high ceiling above. On ten mostly identical sides, it displayed the city’s vital statistics: time, power levels, shift changes, and thinly veiled announcements of the latest alchemical breakthroughs.
Arches divided the curving wall of the hub into ten even segments, with broad main tunnels that led deeper into the passages of Lippen. Between them, tapestries hung with thematic depictions of the specialties of each spoke in the city’s design. Precious gems glittered in sparkling thread against a background of paper notes to lead debtors and creditors alike to the financial district and its cavernous bank vaults; local cuisine in quaint woven serving trays heralded the restaurants; libraries that crowded upon each other and stretched for blocks upon blocks were indicated with books and scientific equipment, which conveniently neglected the details of their hidden alchemical laboratories. So it continued with each of ten arches. The remaining, more remote districts were listed on polished brass plaques near their closest connecting access. High above, the cave ceiling was perforated with ventilation shafts in a lacework pattern. The thin rays of penetrating natural light twinkled like stars above as fans turned lazily in the air works. It was beautiful but complete nonsense when all Talis wanted to do was make as direct a path as possible. It would have reminded her of Subrosa, except at least in Subrosa, you always knew you were a few thin walls away from open skies, and in most places there was a cold draft to provide evidence of that.
As she joined the sinistral flow of traffic in the roundabout at the centerpiece, the thunderous tone marking the hour echoed off the walls and ceiling. The noise quaked through the tunnels where it vibrated water-filled chambers installed along the walls and set off mirroring chimes throughout the city. Talis winced against the cacophony. It had taken a few months before she could stop covering her ears, but she still wasn’t used to it. More than halfway around the centerpiece, she veered into a tunnel, its tapestry depicting colorful banners and gearwork rides, that would lead her to the thermal carousel of the entertainment district. She wished she had an extra layer of clothing to remove as she descended deeper toward the magma flow at the heart of the island. The Rakkar citizens had no problem with the heat. How nice for them.
The tunnels here were more colorful and raucous than in Kasrespazi, though the grime and litter would not have survived the patrolling janitors there. The bottleneck of traffic expanded into Avurlaza, a looping tunnel that directed all pedestrians past the full complement of funhouses, casinos, and bars. Above, small paper lanterns bobbed gently, like skyfauna on a breeze. But the breeze, Talis knew, was actually the hot breath of Vuur Artak venting from even deeper in the tunnels.
The patterned face of a Rakkar stage performer
painted the rock wall over the entrance to the gambling house where Tisker worked his third shift of the day. Past the main entrance, an alley led to the back of the establishment. She didn’t recognize the bouncer holding up the wall near the kitchen door. He pocketed a still-burning pipe into a flame-retardant pouch and stepped forward to block her path.
He’d not been warned about her either, it seemed.
“Use the front entrance, and pay your cover fee like everyone else.”
He looked her up and down, assessing not only the challenge she’d be in a fight but also the threadbare knees of her pants, worn soles on her boots, and faded dye of her sleeveless top. The leathery skin around his eyes wrinkled with a humorless smile. He’d judged that she couldn’t pay the cover charge, and rightly so. Not because she didn’t have the money—well, she didn’t, not on her—but because the crew was on a strict budget that didn’t allowed for vices. No booze, no cards. Not even coffee. That last was a kick in the gut, but the locals didn’t drink it and didn’t bother growing the beans, so the import taxes brought the cost for a hot cup of morning motivation beyond what even Talis was willing to spend on the drink.
They’d lived a lacepawned existence for two years, and Talis had never once gone through the front door of the Firespout Triumphant Lounge. Cut of coarse cloth, and without any sort of disposable income, she had no business walking in like one of the restaurant’s socially elevated Rakkar patrons.
The bouncer was shorter than her, but if she were of a mind to force past him, the heavily muscled shoulders and chitin armor on his forearms would give her pause.
“I’m here to walk my friend home.” She forced herself to suppress the instinct to coil her muscles and fight her way in. She was in a bad mood, that was all. Causing a stir at Tisker’s workplace with some rulebook-memorizing new hire wouldn’t make it any better.
He crossed his arms, the spines on his chitin rubbing with a zipper-like murmur over the joins at his wrist. The sound wasn’t circumstantial. She’d heard it enough to know it was an aggressive display, a vestigial remnant of the earliest generations of Rakkar. “Shift’s not over for twenty minutes. Come back later.”
She stood on tiptoe—not that she needed to—to peer over his shoulder. “Where’s the usual guy? Behn knows me. Ask him.”
“If Behn were working, you’d be talking to him. But you’re talking to me. Come back in twenty minutes, and you can meet your friend out here.”
“Give her a break, Oren.” Behind the bouncer, Tisker stood silhouetted by the orange light spilling from the open kitchen door. “She’s here for me. She’s no trouble.”
Oren gave Talis another full look up and down as though he expected her to transform into a cadre of tocks at any moment.
“She makes any trouble, it’s on you.” Clearly his ideal scenario.
“You have my word.” Tisker held up his white-gloved hands as if in surrender. “Now, please move aside, and let the lady through.”
Oren took a considered step back, turning with his arms still crossed to watch her all the way to Tisker’s side.
Her young pilot was dressed in a ridiculous tuxedo. He’d never have been caught dead in cufflinks and cummerbund if they were still free to sail the skies. Tisker liked getting trussed up, but the Lounge’s uniform for a front manager was as far from his idea of ‘fashion’ as clothes could possibly get.
“Wasn’t expecting to see you here, Cap.”
He didn’t need to hear how anxious she was over Bill. “Sophie’s order is in. I finished up early and figured we could go pick it up.”
He fixed her with the full force of his contagious grin, though he stopped short of clapping in delight. Instead, he waved her inside.
“It’ll be a wondrous Wind Festival after all.”
The words sent a pang through Talis’s chest. She’d forgotten all about the holiday, so far from Cutter skies. There should have been parades and music and religious decorations hanging in shop windows. But here, in the land of Arthel Rak’s people, it was just another day.
Really, it was just another day everywhere. Talis wondered how folks back home were celebrating. Most of them didn’t even know Silus Cutter was dead. She blinked and gave herself a small shake to clear the mood that threatened like clouds from the back of her mind.
If the deep tunnels were warm, the kitchen was a fiery hell tomb. Blowers circulated the air, but did nothing to cool it, and only seemed to fan the flames in a wide landscape of range stove tops and open ovens. Wide, shallow pans sizzled, worked in constant motion over the flames beneath by a line of Rakkar cooks, who seemed undaunted by the heat or splattering oil erupting around them.
One of the cooks looked up as Tisker entered, losing his focus long enough for a bit of the food in his pan to slide up the side at the wrong angle and land between the iron prongs of the cooktop. The cook winced as the kitchen’s head chef gave him a verbal thrashing, but still spared Tisker one more longing look before getting back to work.
Tisker seemed not to notice the cook’s attention. He led Talis through a long, narrow service hallway to the front of the lounge and then waved her quickly into the coat room. Here, she could perch on the attendant’s stool without being in the way of traffic from the kitchen, and her shabby appearance wouldn’t bring down the ambiance of the place. For the rest of his shift, she took the coats he thrust over the half door and handed back the claim tags, all without being seen by the high-class clientele Tisker greeted at the entrance to the dining room.
After he sat each party, he’d remark to her about who they were, and how their personal fortunes fared in these prosperous times. A few of the marks Tisker had picked as part of the crew’s strategy for a hasty—and well-funded—departure from Lippen were dining that very evening, including a politician and a handful of jewel tycoons, though Talis couldn’t see them from her spot in the coatroom.
She could only see Tisker at his high-top podium. Ignoring the temptation to explore coat pockets for anything worth taking, she watched him seat guests and manage special requests, his hands a flurry of activity over the reservation list and the table assignments. The trailing ends of his scars—souvenirs from their ordeal at Nexus when Meran had used him to restrain Onaya Bone—peeked between his long-sleeved jacket and white gloves.
He had always been a thin kid, but he’d gotten thinner and a growth spurt had changed the way his muscles stretched over his frame. Combined with the stubble along his jaw, Talis realized ‘kid’ was no longer an apt description for her pilot. When had he grown up? Was it aboard Wind Sabre when she took his youth for granted, or in the depths of Lippen when she was too preoccupied—or just too exhausted—to pay attention?
The bells finally sounded, and a jet of steam blew from the keyholes in the tunnel walls outside. Tisker returned to the coat room, shrugging off his jacket and waistcoat to return them to the empty hanger kept just inside the door.
“Ready, Cap? Just gotta fetch dinner.”
She followed him back into the kitchen where he collected two aluminum pails from the shift manager with a grateful nod and a murmur of thanks.
The buckets weren’t all that waited for Tisker. The cook from earlier danced nervously from foot to foot, holding a small knapsack by one strap, rubbing the golden-streaked hair at the back of his head. He was young, judging from the spines on his chitin features, though probably a bit senior to Tisker in the relative ages of Rakkar and Cutter peoples. Not too bad looking, and he obviously liked Tisker, so he had good taste.
Talis stepped away from the door and back into the alley to give the young men their privacy.
When he saw the cook waiting for him, Tisker’s face washed with an unreadable expression that was gone almost as fast as it appeared. Whatever the cook was after, it seemed it wasn’t the first time he’d waited for Tisker after their shift. They spoke in low tones, and Tisker looked genuinely apol
ogetic as he gestured toward Talis with one of the buckets. The plating might have made Rakkar faces difficult to read, but the young cook’s disappointment was obvious as Tisker turned away and joined Talis. Once Tisker’s back was turned, his suitor made a hasty exit, pushing past some of the others to lose himself in the crowd.
“What did he want?” Talis accepted one of the buckets. They followed the last stragglers out of the alley and headed for the junction of the first set of tunnels that would take them to the mechanics shop where Sophie’s custom part was due to be ready. By the time they’d reached the street, the young cook was nowhere to be found.
Tisker shrugged. “Nothing.”
“That’s not what nothing looks like, Tisker.” When he didn’t offer up any other explanation, she pressed. “He’s cute.”
“I guess.”
“What do you mean, you guess? Your eyes work as good as mine.”
Another shrug. “He’s all right. I’m just not interested.”
“You’re getting to the age where you’re going to want more than shipmates around.”
His blush was absolute, from his neck to the tips of his ears. “Come on, Cap, don’t. Maybe someday I’ll find someone I care about as much as I care about the three of you. Maybe. If it’s worth pursuing. And if I can convince them to come work aboard the ship with us.”
Talis laughed but let him redirect her. “I didn’t agree to that, unless you’re planning on splitting your share with them.”
Tisker grinned. “If it got that far, I probably would.”
She shook her head in amazement. “First, we need a ship. Speaking of which.”
He nodded, reaching into his pocket and extracting a flat envelope. The Rakkar economy used paper banknotes, like that of the Vein. It even had some of the blind culture’s writing embossed around the center imprint, since the Rakkar cities occupied the underground portion of many Vein islands. Talis flared the bills to check the total was what they’d expected. The local currency never felt as real to Talis as Cutter presscoins, and it always left her with the impression they were behind on their goals.
