The Mask And The Master (Mechanized Wizardry Book 2) (7 page)

“Remarkable coincidence,” Portikal mused darkly, “when so many others failed to find anything.  Is this squad loyal?”

“Seem to be.”

“We thought the same about Volman.”

“Come off it,” Lady Ceres snapped good-naturedly.  “Just because you’ve got gas doesn’t mean everyone is a traitor. Now calm down and listen.  Our people were eavesdropping on a knot of Kessian smugglers when they spotted one of the men—a no-account named Ovid—wearing a piece of Petronaut hardware.”

Portikal stopped preening his ruffled feathers and snapped to attention, his intelligent eyes alight.  “Another foreign Petronaut?  With the same armor, and the claws?”

“Not a Petronaut; just a goon equipped with a few surprises.  Claws on his right hand and a bottle of something explosive, which nearly killed one of our ‘nauts.”

“What are you saying?”  Lord Portikal frowned, moving to Ceres’ side to inspect the report over her shoulder.  His chubby fingers traced through the text as he read, lightning-fast.  “This man wasn’t armored like a ‘naut, or intelligent like a ‘naut, and yet he was arrayed with Petronaut tech?”

“Enough to be dangerous.”

“How did he get it?  Did he steal it?”

“No, unfortunately.”  She sighed, her headache worse than ever.  “It was a gift from the ‘Golden Caravan.’”

Lord Portikal stared at her blankly.  “Which is?”

“After appropriate persuasion, Mister Ovid told our agents about some people who are becoming very popular among the forest-dwelling communities.  The Golden Caravan seems to be the folk name they’ve been given, more than what they call themselves.  But they travel the woods in golden carriages.  Mechanical, not horse-drawn.  They seek out knots of smugglers, or gypsies, or reclusive peasant families, and they give them two things.  First, Petronaut weaponry—”

“Sweet Spheres…!”

“—and, second, a message.  ‘The pretenders will fall.’”

Portikal wiped his face with his hand.  “This meeting is wreaking havoc on my digestion,” he moaned.  “Please, Ceres, will you tell me who these ‘pretenders’ are?”

Lady Ceres’ gray eyes were clear and sad as she focused back on the report.  “My dear friend,” she whispered, “that means us.”

“That’s treasonous talk, Mister Ovid,” field agent Alstor said, her voice low and firm.  The smuggler shrugged, his arms bound to the thin tree behind him.  The only light was from the torches on either side of Ovid, planted on stakes in the ground.  He was sweating profusely.  The Joon night would have been unpleasant enough for him without the fire’s radiant heat so uncomfortably close.  Still, Mathias couldn’t bring himself to feel much sympathy as he watched the interrogation, brawny arms crossed over his chest.  Samanthi’s face was set in stone too, at his side.

“Can’t be treason,” Ovid said, his mouth twisting upwards.  “Delia doesn’t rule me.”

“Big difference between living outside the law and signing on to a rebellion, Mister Ovid,” Sir Kelley said, just as quiet and sinister as his partner.  He and the field agent were making quite an effective tag-team.  “I’m hearing you say that the Regents of Delia are ‘pretenders’ and that you want them dead.  You’ve got awfully strong feelings about a kingdom that doesn’t rule you.”

“Kingdom.  That’s right. A kingdom.”  Ovid leaned forward, sweat dripping off his angular face.  “Seems to me a kingdom should have a king.  Not a band of four crooks who take turns sitting in the Haberstorm Throne.”

“The Regency Council rules only until Princess Naomi Elizabeth Galidate
Haberstorm
comes of age, Mister Ovid,” Alstor said.  “I’m glad you’re so concerned about the propriety of the succession, but I promise we’ve got it under control.”

“And, again, I don’t see why a Kessian low-life like you cares so much about what happens in Delia.  What makes you so political?” Kelley pressed.

“It’s the Golden Caravan, all right?” Ovid hissed out after a long silence.  “I sign on to what they say, they give me good stuff.  Simple as that.”

“What’s the Golden Caravan?”  Samanthi whispered.

“I have no idea,” Sir Mathias replied under his breath.  “But I guarantee you it’s going in our report.”

The smuggler scowled as he adjusted his weight.  His bandaged leg was trembling beneath him, and his wrists were chafed raw from the rope.  The torchlight made his eyes glow as he strained against his bonds, leaning forward even farther towards his impassive interrogators.

“My gang’s been scraping by for a year and a half,” he said, his voice full of bitterness.  “There’s no getting ahead in picking up a few pelts here, a few coins there.  We need something big to change our situation.  The Golden Caravan?  They gave me those claws.  They gave me potions strong enough to take down that big guy of yours.  Me, a Kessian low-life, knocking Delia’s best and brightest flat on his back, one-on-one.  How’d you like that, huh?”

“Take a look at yourself again and tell me you what makes you think you came out ahead,” Alstor said, raising an eyebrow.

Ovid grinned.  “Talk all you want.  I’ve got you people scared.”

“You’ve got us scared.”

“You Delians keep your Petronaut junk locked in a workshop, where only ten people even know what’s been invented before it shows up on the battlefield.  That’s how you like it.  All the power stays in the hands of the powerful.

“The Golden Caravan doesn’t think that way.  They think it’s about time the toys the powerful invented for themselves start trickling their way down to the common man. 

“You know those farmer rebellions you’ve been stomping down all year?”

Sir Mathias thought back to the angry men and women in Verrure, fighting LaMontina’s troops long after it was obvious their situation was hopeless; the defiance that hung on in some of their eyes as they were beaten down and led to the cages, to cool their heels in Delia’s dungeons for a few months.

Ovid ran his tongue over his bruised lips.  “When the peasants you love to beat down are fighting back with explosives and fancy metal suits, instead of slings and pitchforks?  We’ll see how long the crook regents and their stooges hang on to power then.”

Kelley and Alstor exchanged a look.  Sir Kelley stepped forward, his pockmarked face wreathed in shadows.  “This Golden Caravan of yours, Mister Ovid.  You think they’re peasants?  You think they’re made up of common men?”

“They’re looking out for us, at least,” the smuggler threw back defiantly.

“They gave you a set of claws that didn’t fit, pointed you towards Delia’s city walls, and told you to overthrow our government?  You call that looking out for you?”  Sir Kelley spread his palms upwards.  “You’re right, Mister Ovid; I am scared.  I didn’t realize people as dumb as you lived in my backyard.”

“There are lots more like me,” Ovid said, raising his head high.  “You have no idea how far their message has spread.”

“Not until you tell us, we don’t.”

“Can’t give you numbers if they’re too big to count.” he said proudly.  “There’s an army of common people forming, with weapons you goons never thought you’d have to watch out for.”

“And there’s just as big an army of people like your smuggler friends tonight; the woman and the big man who wanted nothing to do with your war against Delia,” Alstor mentioned.  “You guys would have killed each other if we hadn’t stepped in.  You should thank us.”

“I don’t have anything to say about them.  And I don’t have anything more to say to you.  It’ll be death to the pretenders before the year is out; and you stooges will go along with them.”

Alstor put a hand on Kelley’s shoulder, and he nodded.  “Here’s the thing, Mister Ovid,” she said.  She clasped her hands behind her back and sighed, walking towards the captive with measured strides.  “You’re not the one who gets to decide when you have nothing more to say.  And when you brought up this Golden Caravan, you became interesting to me for the very first time.  So how about we keep chatting?  After all,” she whispered, her nose almost touching his, “the night is still very young.”

Ovid gave a juicy cough, searching her face.

“What say we give them some space?”  Samanthi whispered, a little anxiously.  Sir Mathias nodded.  There were some things he didn’t want to see either, especially right before trying to sleep.

As they turned away, Sir Mathias winced and put a hand to his chest.  It was past time for him to get back to his bedroll; the master of physic would be irate that he’d been up and moving for this long already.  They began the slow trek towards the main campfire, away from the torchlight, their minds working in silence for a moment.

“Crazy bastard,” Mathias finally said.  “A ‘Golden Caravan?’  People driving around the Tarmic Woods, giving out free weapons to idiots to spread revolutionary zeal? That can’t possibly be for real, can it?”

“One bright point, at least,” Samanthi said, looking at him guilelessly.  “Next time our scouts see a golden carriage driving through the forest, they’ll know it’s important.” 

He snorted, leaning against her shoulder.  The low drone of cicadas masked their laughter as they helped each other through the shadowy woods.

Chapter Six

The Feastday Hero

“Afternoon, senior tech,” she said, violet eyes creased in a smile.

Lundin looked over his shoulder, cradling the fluted trumpet mouth in his hands.  “Dame Miri!” he called out, lines of worry vanishing from his forehead for the first time all day.  Martext, Elia, and Willl with three L’s looked up from their work as Dame Miri Draker strode through the door, her boots a rhythmic counterpoint to the high-pitched chatter from the squawk box in the corner.  Lundin set the part down on the worktable and rushed to meet her, his bright smile faltering as he looked at the black-haired woman.

All of the Parade squad’s assignments boiled down to one directive: to spend their three-year tour being as beautiful as possible.  Between Dame Miri’s natural attributes, and her consummate professionalism as senior ‘naut of the Parade squad, it was so commonplace to see her at her breathtaking best around the workshops that it went (almost) unnoticed by the techs and ‘nauts otherwise inclined to notice such things. 
Right…just like Samanthi ‘almost’ wouldn’t notice whenever Sir Sigurd wandered by, all oiled up,
Lundin thought with a brief flash of amusement. 

In a way, being beautiful was her duty.  But all Petronauts felt a broader duty too: to protect the state that had funded and protected them for generations.  On the feastday, Dame Miri chose to follow the higher duty and throw herself into the search for Jilmaq, dispatching a posse of thugs and an unknown Petronaut in the process.  Her choice had been instrumental in keeping Princess Naomi safe, winning the Throne’s gratitude for herself and her squad.  She had performed that duty outstandingly well.  But close-quarters combat was not conducive to staying gorgeous. 

Lundin felt a flash of sad anger against Delia’s unknown enemies as he took her in again.  Spheres knew that the lovely woman had come by her current imperfections honestly.  The wide bruise on her cheek was still smoldering and purple from where the foreign ‘naut had put a boot into her face, and her right bicep and both her forearms and long-fingered hands were swaddled in bandages.  Razor-sharp claws had torn her limbs up badly.  Last he heard, the masters of physic were painfully certain her left hand would never be back to normal.  Lundin tilted his head, feeling an outpouring of sympathy his mouth couldn’t match with the right words.  They stood face-to-face near the door, across the room from the whispering, bespectacled Civics.  “How are you feeling, Ma’am?”  he finally managed.

“Oh, fine; but my guitar playing’s gotten worse,” she said, frowning quizzically at her mummy-wrapped hands.  Surprised, Lundin barked a single laugh, covering his mouth before more could escape.  Dame Miri grinned, brushing a strand of black hair out of her eyes.

“You try one, Mister Lundin,” she challenged.  “Something I haven’t heard yet.”

“The bruise matches your eyes,” he tried.

“Fifth time today.  Write your own material; I do!  Well, lately, I dictate it…”

 Lundin raised his palms in surrender, giggling.  “Flames, Dame Miri, it’s good to see someone familiar.  What can I do for you?”

She dropped her performance face, relaxing.  “Actually, Mister Lundin, that’s exactly what I’m here to ask you, word-for-word,” she said, her a little sad.  He looked at her blankly.  “I need a job.”

“Hmm?  What about the Parade squad…?” he trailed off, putting two and two together.

She nodded, dusting a speck off her uniform self-consciously.  “I’ve taken myself off public appearances until I’m not at risk of scaring children.  The Board of Governors agrees; this isn’t exactly the face of the Petronauts we want Delia to see.”

“You’re a hero, Ma’am,” Lundin said quietly.  “It might not be so bad for Delians to see what it looks like when someone puts herself on the line for them.”

Dame Miri waved that away.  “Come on.  Princess Naomi herself came down to thank us after the feastday.  I’m not greedy enough to ask for the hero treatment again.  Besides, my tour with the Parade squad was winding down already.  But the next assignment I’d requested…”

“…was going to be with the Shock Troops.  Right?”  Lundin asked, remembering.

“Which, if the Spheres line up right, can still happen,” she said, attempting to flex her hand.  “But, as you can imagine, they don’t quite consider this fighting fitness.  So until I heal up, Mister Lundin, I’m—well, somewhere between sea and shore, to coin a phrase.  You see?”

“I’m sorry,” he said into the short silence that followed. 

She sighed, smirking lopsidedly.  “
Ulraexi Pillok Mentatum Est,
right?  At least I’ve got my mind.  A fact which the Board reminded me of when I went to them with my predicament, and they told me you were a Civic now.”  She looked around the high-ceilinged workshop, shaking her head in wonder.  “Getting your mechanized wizardry ready for a public outing, is that right?”

“Four terrifying days from now.”

“You and Ms. Elena walked me through the theory, back before the feastday.  And that squawk box your friends are huddled around over there is still technically Parade squad property.  So, I thought I might pay you a visit.”  She rubbed her thighs with her swaddled fingertips.  As she looked at him, her big eyes were suddenly, unexpectedly uncertain.  “What do you say, Mister Lundin?  Can I help?”