Rebel Skyforce (Mad Tinker Chronicles) (27 page)

Axterion was midway through a bite of soggy potato when a knock interrupted his meal. He finished his bite before answering. “Can’t a man sup in peace?”

“He can,” a young voice called back, “but we’re at war.” The door opened and Danilaesis poked his face through with an insouciant grin slathered across it.

“Bah, just you.” Axterion stuffed another spoonful of soup into his mouth.

“Is that any way to treat your favorite grandson?” Danilaesis asked.

Axterion frowned into his stew. “Remind me again how many I’ve got besides you.”

Danilaesis’s face fell. The young warlock slunk into the room and shut the door behind hm. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You ought to try it,” said Axterion, sloshing his words around a bite of carrot and broth. “Mean things more often, and you’ll make less an ass of yourself. And quit carrying that disinterred bit of dragon about on your back. You’re no warlock until I say you are.”

“If it flies like a hawk, if it has talons like a hawk, if it can spot its prey from above the clouds and swoop down for a kill, is it not a hawk? Call it a chicken or a sparrow, but it’s still a hawk.”

Axterion chewed in silence a moment, one brow furrowed. “You’ve just come from Logic and Rhetoric, is that it? I may need to have a cross word with your Arveron if he keeps filling your head with nonsense about hawks to dump beside my supper.”

Danilaesis set his sword down on a table piled with books, balancing it precariously across
Dweomers of the Age of Gehlen
and
Musing on the Conscience of Man
. With a somber mien, he picked up a stack of Imperial Circle reports from the chair across from Axterion and took a seat in their stead. “Grandfather, I didn’t come up here to bother you.”

“Best news I’ve heard all day. I’ve finally cracked completely, and I’m just imagining you.” Axterion dug deep in his bowl, giving the watery meal his utmost attention. “Finish a meal in peace,” he mumbled.

“Grandfather, I’m serious!” Danilaesis took the old man by his spoon arm. It was enough to draw a glare that would have sent shivers through an army seventy winters ago. “I got hold of some books in Tellurak.”

“What sort of books?” Axterion asked slowly. There was something urgent in Danilaesis’s manner that piqued the old sorcerer’s curiosity, one of the few parts of him not decayed to ruin with extreme age.

“They’re written in Arcane.”

“Unusual for Tellurak, certainly.”

“Exactly! The Korrish twinborn think it’s just gibberish written in daruu. They’re letting me copy them so I can bring it here for translation.”

Axterion set his bowl aside and slumped back in his chair. This sounded like something worth settling in to hear. “I take it, then, that you did not immediately confess to being literate in the dragons’ tongue?”

A sly, toothy grin was all the answer he required. “The books are crazy. I don’t know who wrote them, but they weren’t from Korr, or Veydrus, or Tellurak.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because they’re written to help someone who’s been stranded. It’s like they’re manuals for being shipwrecked. They keep calling the reader ‘traveler’ and refer to a bunch of worlds as the lands of savage children, ours included.”

“And this is how they built that machine you told us about.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the half of what’s in there. There’s diagrams in there that probably make more sense to the Korrish, but they can’t read the text. I’m actually a little impressed that they built a working machine, now that I’ve seen the books. I couldn’t do it. Then again, without reading Arcane, they couldn’t have brewed
this
.”

Danilaesis reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial the size of his finger. A clear liquid oozed about inside as Danilaesis leaned the vial back and forth, trying to tantalize.

“What is it?”

“What you want most of all.”

Axterion snorted. “You young folk. Think you know it all. What I want is a back that doesn’t ache no matter whether I stand or sit, a bladder that’ll leave me in peace the night through, and enough wind in my lungs to manage the stairs without a stop halfway.”

Danilaesis held out the vial. “Then here you go.” He wasn’t an earnest boy, as a rule. Not one bit. He was a braggart and a bully, a sly prankster and a cruel friend to those few who would even dare call him such. With more than a fair inkling of the budding tyrant he had grandsired tempering his curiosity, Axterion took it.

“What is this?”

“
If your supply of youth elixir should run short during your time among the savages, fear not, traveler! This simple concoction works nearly as well
.” Danilaesis quoted, putting a hand to his chest and enunciating each word like a boy who had just come from his rhetoric class. “And like bloody piss it was simple! I needed Torbur’s help to brew it. Half the ingredients need aetherial preparation, and the Academy apothecary barely had enough of a few things to make that much.”

“This will make me young again?” Axterion asked, his voice fading to a whisper. He shook his head to clear it. “How much younger? Does the book say?”

“No, and I wasn’t about to try it myself. I could end up playing toy soldiers in the gardens with the princes.”

“Seems awfully risky.”

“Grandfather, be realistic. How much are you risking? A summer, maybe two?”

“I’ve hung on longer than anyone ever guessed already.”

“All the more reason to take your chance while you have it. You could breathe your last any night, just drift to sleep and never wake.”

Axterion knit his brow. “Feeling all sentimental today, huh?”

“Me?” Danilaesis asked, pointing to himself. He turned the finger to Axterion. “When I asked you what you wanted most, did your dead children even flicker through your dusty old brain? What about your wife? What about Brannis?”

Axterion gave a cynical chuckle, little more than a pair of snorts at his own expense. “Can’t say they did. Guess I’d closed those books; just wanted to twist your ear a bit about the problems I face, dawn to dusk and the night through in between.”

“Well, maybe I did think about my father, and Uncle Maruk, and Brannis and Aloisha, Iridan, Juliana, and Uncle Rashan. Gut you crossways, old man, we’re all the family we’ve got left. Drink the stuff and be done with it!”

Axterion felt the cool glass between his fingers, and held it up to the light. “Might be nice to work magic again, not waste my whole Source fighting a slow retreat against age.” The wooden cap popped off with a bit of effort; the rim of the vial was tacked with honey. It was the honey he tasted first as he tilted the vial back and poured the contents into his mouth.

The elixir itself tasted like ... sunshine? Axterion had expected something foul and acerbic; he hadn’t even dared sniff the stuff, lest he lose his nerve. Instead, warmth oozed through him like spilled syrup, starting at his tongue and spreading through the whole of him.

When he dropped his arm to the side and let the vial slip from his fingers with a sigh more fit for a bordello than an elderly man’s lunch table, he found Danilaesis staring him with eyes like coins.

“How do you feel?” Danilaesis asked. His eyes locked onto Axterion’s, which drooped under an unaccustomed languor.

Axterion picked up his spoon and bowl. “Famished.”

Chapter 20

“If you can’t make do, all you’ll make is don’t.” -Cadmus Errol

Rynn paced the cargo hold of the
Cloudsmith
, her mismatched gait coming more naturally now than when she had first hobbled around her own cabin. Rumor had spread about her mechanical leg, of course, but one would hardly guess by looking. She wore baggy trousers and a matched pair of boots. She could have been a war hero come home with a limp, for all an unknowing observer could tell. So what if there was a hiss of air with each step or a faint grinding of metal every time she turned? The smell of lubricating grease hung about her often enough that a bit more was hardly worth noting.

There were many observers there in the hold with her. Every twinborn not on duty had showed up to watch, along with most of the one-worlder crew. The hold was packed with rebel humans, though they gave a bit of respectful (and fearful) space around the world-ripper machine and its attendant equipment. They also kept clear of the dozen rebel soldiers selected for special duty, who stood ready by the aperture.

In the machine’s view was Glenwood Sky Aerodrome, a vast expanse of poured-stone littered with stone buildings and parked airships. Kuduk soldiers and workers saw to whatever daily tasks were required of the menial oppressors of humanity. All wore uniforms of one sort or another. The Grangian military favored dull grey for their troops and pale grey for the mechanics and laborers. The base would be quieter at night, but the plan needed light to make it work.

“Get a good look,” said Rynn, letting her voice carry well beyond the dozen who required instruction. The hold was quiet save for her voice, the hum of the world-ripper at idle, and the occasional cough or shuffled foot. At a gesture from Rynn, Erefan swept the view down a row of liftwing airships. They were of a different design than the first Ruttanian models the rebellion had stolen, with just a single seat. The Grangian ships were smaller, too, but not small enough for the wingspan to fit through the world-ripper’s frame. “I want eight ships off the ground within thirty seconds of the hole opening. Is that understood?”

Eight voices shouted in martial unison. “Yes, ma’am!”

Rynn turned to the four soldiers flanking the machine. “I want cover fire from this side only. None of you are to pass through the hole unless I give the order. If I order the view moved, you are to hold fire until I give the order to resume. I don’t want wild shots while the world is swinging around in front of you. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Letting out a deep breath, Rynn nodded to herself and addressed the waiting eight once again. “Any questions?”

“No, ma’am!”

“Open the hole in five ... four ... three ...”

Sosha’s heart hammered in her chest. Sounds from the world around her grew fuzzy.
What am I doing here?
She should never have insisted on flying Rynn to safety when first rescuing her. If Rynn had taken the controls, she could have wiped her hands of piloting and stuck to being a nurse. Through the amber lenses of her goggles, she focused on the airship that would be hers. Her leather pilot’s jacket was stifling in the crowded confines of the machine’s room, filled with humans radiating heat. It would be different in the air. At her hip was a holster with a coil gun that she and Rynn both knew she wouldn’t fire—but all the other pilots had one, and so she had to match.

I’m not like them.
It was too late to point that out to anyone.

“Three ... two ... one ...” Rynn pointed to Erefan, her finger shooting out like a bullet.

The switch closed with a clack-thump. The dynamo whined and crackled. The view turned real and beckoned.

Pilots sprinted through the hole, each to their assigned vessel. Sosha hesitated just long enough to be last through, but not long enough to be called a laggard. She blinked at the sudden glare, shuddered at the sudden chill. Clicks from behind, and sizzling whistles through the air signaled the start of cover fire from the
Cloudsmith
. Sosha spared a look over her shoulder and saw the four soldiers each on a knee. One was already reloading.

Her feet pounded the poured-stone as she dodged among the grounded airships and found her own. First thing, she popped the catch and lifted the hood. She slipped a glove off and put a hand to the cool metal of the runed engine. Taking a steady breath, the tingling coolness seeped through her, a sensation no jacket could protect against. Aether flowed into her and out again, directly into the engine. She slammed the hood shut.

There was a three-rung ladder built into the side of the liftwing, but Sosha was in a rush. With a hop, she caught hold of the edge of the cockpit, brought one foot up until it caught one of the rungs, and thrust herself over the edge. It took a few scrambling seconds to reorient herself to a seated position—she could already hear engines firing up in the other airships. The controls were laid out differently, but everything was there. Pulling the knob by her left knee engaged the engine.

There was no time to waste. Sosha heard kuduks shouting as realization dawned on them that they were under attack and being robbed of liftwings. With a quick glance to either side to check for other pilots, she gave the airship some throttle. The buzz through the seat was strange; a different engine, a different chassis. It lacked the comforting feel of the two-seaters she’d flown previously.

“Come on, you little bucket,” she coaxed it, “let’s get off this poured-stone and into some nice fresh air. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Whether her pep talk had any effect or not, the vessel picked up speed, bouncing along toward the aerodrome take-off strip well behind the rest of the rebel thieves. Once she was well clear of the one-seaters for which the rebellion lacked pilots, coil-gun rounds tore through the rest of the Grangian fleet. None of the other liftwings would be coming after them once they were aloft.

One by one the liftwings took to the air, like birds flying in formation. Sputtering along, Sosha’s bird was the one that falls from the nest to be eaten by cats. Each time she gave it more throttle, it seemed to shake more, but not pick up speed. Shots cracked the air, traditional cartridge bullets, not Rynn’s coil guns. The kuduks were mounting a ground assault, and she was the only target still on the ground. Answering fire from the world hole was scant comfort when two rounds punched through the liftwing’s hull, and another shattered one panel of the windscreen. With gritted teeth, and curses bottled up behind them, Sosha pounded her gloved fist against the control panel. It was a problem solving method ill-reputed among tinkers, but for the non-tinker, it was a fix-all for mechanical problems.

“Eziel, I don’t ask you for much, but if you could just help me get this you-damned thing in the air, I’ll try to be better about getting to sermons.”

Sosha slammed the throttle full forward. The engine rattled like a thunderail careening over rough tracks, then settled into a steady whirr, and the propeller pulled Sosha along with it. The bouncing smoothed out and she raced along the takeoff strip, taking a few more shots to the hull, but none so close as the first few. Pulling back on the control stick, the liftwing did as its name implied and tore itself free of Korr’s grasp. The buzzing in the seat died down and the echo of the engines off the poured-stone faded.

With one hand on the stick, Sosha pushed loose glass from the ledge where the windscreen met the control panel. Taking both hands from the stick for just a moment, she squirmed until she got both halves of the safety harness pulled around front and buckled. The liftwing wobbled, but once she regained control, all seemed well. Seven liftwing airships trailed off into the distance in a ragged row, with her taking up the rear guard.

Sosha breathed. It was impossible that she’d held her breath through the whole of her escape, but it felt like it as her lungs unclenched and she settled in to follow the little convoy back to the
Jennai
.

“We ready to cut power?” Erefan asked, shouting to be heard over the cheering and boisterous congratulations being bandied about the hold.

Rynn held up a hand in Erefan’s direction while she stared through the hole to Korr. The single-seat liftwings had been reduced to scrap metal, but they weren’t the only vessels at the aerodrome. Six vacu-dirges sat idle near a loading platform. Two were chained down, meaning that they were pulling at least some vacuum already.

A nagging bit of geometry tickled Rynn’s brain. There were three such airships welded together to form the behemoth
Jennai
: the original by that name, with the former
Cloudsmith
to its right and the
Sulfurous
behind it. It was asymmetrical, ugly, and awkward. She told herself that it was a hazard to liftwings landing in the plaza, that the open structure was weaker without a good way to tie the
Sulfurous
to the
Cloudsmith
. She imagined the extra crew and cargo they could carry with a fourth vessel, once it was runed and hollowed out. All these were true, but drugged with pentothal she’d admit that it was the pattern that bothered her. A piece was missing, and she meant to fill it.

“Close the hole, but leave the view.”

Erefan didn’t hesitate. His hand was already waiting on the switch.

“Now, bring it around and sweep through that one,” said Rynn, pointing to the leftmost of the Grangian vacu-dirges. “I want to see who is aboard, and how many.”

“Rynn, what are you thinking?”

Rynn raised her voice for all to hear. She shouted over all their conversations. “I’m thinking we’re not done today.” She drew her coil gun and pointed it skyward. “We’re taking one of the big ones, too.”

A cheer rose in the echo of her pronouncement. Erefan shouted something, but the cheering drowned him out and she couldn’t read his lips. She pointed to the machine. He shook his head. She waved a finger across the crowd of rebels, then pointed it at the view of Glenwood Sky’s aerodrome, then nodded emphatically. Erefan pursed his lips and the muscles in his jaw bulged. Rynn jabbed a finger at the world-ripper’s controls, and Erefan broke under her gaze. The view moved.

Kezudkan sat at a table formed from a single slab of stone the size of a trolley car. The surface was strewn with maps and books. At one end, chests of various sizes and descriptions lay open, revealing gold and coins within. His world-ripper gaped, opening into the vault of a bank in some hovel of a human sky.

“Not a single muddy city has so much as a tunnel beneath it,” said Kezudkan, “except to wash their filth downstream. Disgusting. They deserve to lose all their gold.”