Tinker's Justice (23 page)

“That’s not the signal,” Kaia said from her seat at the world-ripper controls. The main chamber of the lunar headquarters was packed with all the residents, as well as a dozen soldiers that had been brought in for help during Madlin’s extraction. They stood poised at the two auxiliary world-rippers that normally ran the river through the middle of the room.

“It is today,” Anzik replied.

“Greuder, pull that lever!” Cadmus shouted across the chamber. He held a lever on the console of his own world-ripper at the upstream end of the river.

Greuder reached for a matching lever on the downstream control consoles. “What’s this even—?”

“Now!” Cadmus ordered. The two men pulled their levers in unison. The workings beneath the dials clicked and whizzed as machinery took over the operator’s function. “Open the hole.”

“C-C-Cadmus, what are you doing?” Greuder asked. His world-ripper was aimed at the head of Fr’n’ta’gur. The dragon had brought its head level with the viewframe as soon as it had arrived.

Cadmus opened his own world-hole, this one aligned perfectly with the barrel of the World Ender Cannon.

Madlin ducked for cover as the dragon’s head jerked forward. Peeking up, she saw a world-hole open in mid-air, level with Fr’n’ta’gur’s head. Her guards were none too pleased with her sudden action, and jolts of spark wracked her body. Through the pain and spasms, she managed a laugh.

Right beside her, a second world-hole opened. On the far side, Rynn stood with a coil gun. Two clicks. Two dead guards. A squad of soldiers swept in and formed a perimeter. Just inside that wall of military humanity, a third world-hole opened, and Anzik stepped through. He hurried to Madlin’s side and put his hands on the sides of her collar. With a sizzle of boiling steel, the collar felt away to clatter on the stone floor.

Above, there was a rush of air, an intake of breath like a sea storm. Fr’n’ta’gur’s mouth opened, but it was Cadmus’s voice that Madlin heard.

“That was my daughter you stole!”

The cavern shook before Madlin even realized what had just happened. Fr’n’ta’gur jerked backward, his neck wobbling. The ancient dragon toppled, his vast bulk dropping limply toward the cavern floor. Soldiers grabbed Madlin under the arms and hoisted her through the world-hole before she could think to protest.

A dragon is armored unlike any other creature. Its scales are harder than the finest steels, impervious to flame or heat of any sort. Arrows and swords turn aside without scratching it. The leathery hide beneath is sturdier than chain, tougher than an elephant’s hide, and can dull a blade before it would slice through. But a three-foot diameter steel sphere, propelled faster than a rifle bullet, tore through Fr’n’ta’gur front to back in a fraction of a second. If there was time for one final thought to pass through the great beast’s mind before it met its end, it would have been one of utter perplexity.

Madlin turned to watch as her rescuers piled through the world-hole, taking refuge aboard the
Jennai
from the cataclysm wrought by Cadmus’s shot. She saw Anzik step through the other world-hole, taking another few of the soldiers with him and unleashing a blast of lightning from his fingertips toward foes outside her range of view. The last thing she saw before Anzik’s world-hole closed was a lone, elderly goblin taking Anzik’s hand and being yanked through.

Rynn’s viewframe returned to just an image, so Madlin could not hear the great crash as Fr’n’ta’gur slammed to the cavern floor, his body hitting the sea of gold and his head slamming to the clifftop floor not far from where Madlin had just been rescued. The impact smashed the crates containing the day’s delivery of coil guns, but that wasn’t something that Madlin was going to worry about just then.

Across the
Jennai
, the word went out. The squads waiting at their world-rippers sprang into action. Human rebels swarmed into the goblin manufacturing site, coil guns clicking madly. The warehouse’s magical rune defenses were blasted to rubble, along with the doors they protected. Workers streamed in and out of the world-holes, reclaiming all the goblin-made weaponry that had been stored. There were still hundreds unaccounted for in the hands of the goblin armies, but all other weapons were taken back aboard the ship.

In under an hour, the valley that Madlin had helped to build lay in ruins. The World Ender Cannon was reloaded and fired five more times, leveling buildings five or more at a time. The goblin penchant for order had laid the valley out in a convenient grid that the weapon tore into with an angry tinker’s glee.

Madlin looked on from the main cargo hold of the
Jennai
, where the ship’s first world-ripper had been sent to examine the dragon’s lair. All the officers of the rebellion who were not at the lunar base were there. It was the sort of event that histories spoke of, and none of them wanted to miss it. The roof of the cavern had partly collapsed, but the majority of the structure remained intact. The goblin priests had all either fled or been killed. The dragon lay motionless, eyes gaping toward the viewframe. The hole where the World Ender Cannon’s shot had exited its body was hidden on the far side of the corpse.

The world-ripper had enabled it all, but Cadmus’s cannon had done most of the work. It was a grotesque, inefficient solution, but Madlin had to admit that it had worked. Seeing the beast dead on the floor of his own lair gave a hollow sense of satisfaction. If only all the kuduks could be lined up in one place and shot with a single cannon …

A horrible, sickening thought crept into Madlin’s head. The world-ripper could be a better weapon than Cadmus had ever imagined. There
was
a place where all the kuduks were gathered together, a place where they could all be killed with a single shot: Korr.

A page in Madlin’s mind drew the first lines of a sketch, a sketch of a device, a device that would kill them all. Pieces of concepts floated, yet to be placed: a river brought to a moon, a turbine turned by a waterfall, the carcass of a creature impervious to fire.

“Gather a work crew,” Madlin ordered. She addressed no one in particular. “I want samples of teeth, hide, and scales, and I want them cleaned of blood and in my workshop by morning.”

“What are you thinking?” Sosha asked.

“Creatures like this don’t exist in our world, and I think we should learn what we can from it. Plus, I think I might like a trophy to remind folks what a tinker’s vengeance looks like. Maybe we’ll mount it’s skull on the front of the
Jennai
.”

“That’s disgusting,” said Sosha, aghast.

Madlin rolled her eyes. “I was joking. I just want to study it, that’s all.”

Rascal. She remembered at last. It was Rascal who had taught her to put together a proper lie.

Chapter 18

“Put two men who hate each other alone in a room and they might kill one another. Add a third that’s done them both wrong, and they’ll be best friends for as long that third man lives … which won’t be long.” – Rashan Solaran

Jamile watched as Anzik crossed the main chamber of the lunar headquarters, exiting in the direction of his quarters. The sorcerer did not acknowledge her or Madlin as he passed, and did not give any indication of interest in the viewframe as it opened onto the Kheshi countryside of Tellurak’s southern hemisphere. Madlin kept the dials moving, sweeping across verdant valleys and uncut forests. Khesh was heavily populated, but unlike the corresponding regions of Korr, there was still unspoiled land left to expand even further.

“What do you think?” Madlin asked. She kept her attention focused on the machine.

“I think he could help us,” Jamile replied, staring down the corridor after Anzik.

Madlin frowned as she turned to Jamile, who stood behind her seat at the control console. “Forget him, I mean the land. The deep-dwellers will hate anything on the surface, but I think anyone from the skies would appreciate it.”

Jamile shrugged. “Sure. It’s pretty. But I mean, what if you sent Anzik to talk to Harwick? What’s the worst that happens?”

“No, it’s …” Madlin paused. Jamile saw it, the moment the question settled in and took root. The tinker’s gears started turning and Madlin gave that simple question serious thought. She waited for Madlin to determine
exactly
what the worst case would be if the two met. “I suppose there’s no harm if Anzik ends up killing him. There’s no way of telling, but I suspect Harwick is no match for Anzik. I suppose the worst case would be angering both of them enough that they turn against us together.”

Jamile snorted. “You really think that could happen? We have control of the world-rippers. We could do more damage to Anzik’s people than those Kadrins could, I bet you. We’re his best hope. And Harwick doesn’t seem the type to … well, I take that back, I suppose he does seem like the type who’d ally with his enemy for some other reason. But I don’t see Anzik going along with it.”

Madlin pointed to the viewframe. “This is a real problem, one we’ve got right now. We have more refugees by the day, and not enough safe places to put them. If you want to go convince Anzik to confess to murder, be my guest.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Anzik asked.

Jamile sat at the foot of Anzik’s bed, looking up at the sorcerer as he stood regarding her with the most puzzled expression she had ever seen him display. “Because he’s clever. He’s going to find out sooner or later, I imagine. Better to tell him yourself and be honest about why you did it.”

“I can only surmise that you have recently discovered his Veydran identity and that is what’s causing your increased concern,” Anzik said. He turned his back to Jamile, looking at the bare stone of the wall. “Who is he?”

“Kladriss Solaran,” Jamile replied. “We don’t know quite who he was, but he let his—”

“You mean Caladris,” Anzik corrected her. “At the time of his death, he was one of the Inner Circle, the group of sorcerers that rules the Kadrin Empire behind their puppet empress. Caladris Solaran was also the father of one Danilaesis Solaran.”

“Oh poo,” Jamile swore softly. She hung her head. “So there’s no way you could talk sense with him, I guess. Madlin’s going to have to get those books back, then.”

“Books?” Anzik’s head snapped around. “What books?”

Jamile swallowed. “Oh, that’s right. Double-poo. Madlin never told you about the books.” Anzik stared at her, those oft unfocused eyes boring into her like the giant auger aboard the
Jennai
. “You’re … not going to hurt me, are you?”

“No.”

Jamile released a sigh that wasn’t quite convinced by Anzik’s reply. She drew herself to her feet. “Well, then I’ll just—”

Anzik stepped between her and the door. “I would, however, very much appreciate you describing the books you mentioned.”

Jamile sat back down. For a long moment, she stewed over just where to begin. Anzik waited, patient as ever. The impulse to call for help warred with Jamile’s resolve to get Harwick and Anzik to meet. Madlin would come for her, she knew, but what would Anzik do to her in the meantime. Of course, if she relented and told Anzik everything, he might help her—but then what would Madlin do to her?

“They’re old,” she began. It seemed like something that had to be gotten out of the way up front. “No one even knows who wrote them. Madlin and Cadmus can’t even tell what they’re written on, but it’s not any kind of paper anyone has seen. There are twelve of them in all, and they’re written in a language none of us can read.”

“But Harwick can.”

“Someone told Jamile that it was all written in a language that Kadrin sorcerers can read,” Jamile explained.

“Who told her that? Harwick?”

Jamile shook her head. “No, someone named Juliana. I have no idea who she was or …” She stopped. Anzik’s eyes had gone wide enough to fall out of his face. “What?”

“She’s alive?” he breathed.

“You know this Juliana, then?”

“She was thought dead, or so the Kadrins let us believe. There were rumors that Brannis Solaran survived his battle with Rashan Solaran and ran off with his lover. Neither of them has been seen since the last war. It was all speculation, as far as most credible accounts were concerned.”

“Who is she?”

“One of their first airship commanders, widow of a failed warlock, none-too-secret lover of the most powerful sorcerer Veydrus has known since before that dragon you killed was hatched,” said Anzik. “I met him when I was younger; at first I confused him for Tallax, because his Source shone brighter than the noontime sun—just like the Tallax in the stories.”

“What’s this got to do with Harwick and the books?” Jamile asked. She was put out, having decided to spill her mind on the matter and now being prevented from following through.

“Nothing,” Anzik replied. “Everything. If those books came from her, they could be a trap, or a sign that she and Brannis have returned to help our cause. It could be a thousand things. The ways of deceit are a maze. Rushing headlong can lead to a dead end. I need to think … I need to think …” Anzik began to pace the room.

“Can you at least talk with Harwick?” Jamile asked. “If you two can come to an understanding, it might make it easier for us to get the rest of the books translated.”

Anzik stopped in his footsteps. “What has come of them thus far?”

“Instructions for the world-rippers—it calls them transport gates—some chemistry things, including a youth cure-all, and a machine that calls for help.” Jamile ticked them off on her fingers as she reported them. “Oh, you can’t tell Cadmus about the call-for-help machine. He doesn’t know yet.”

Anzik furrowed his brow. “Why not?” There was something about talking with her that evoked actual emotive response from him. Jamile felt a pang of pride for bringing him a bit closer to being a normal boy.

“Madlin worried that he would use it,” Jamile replied.

“Why is that a problem?”

“We don’t know who it might call.”

Anzik nodded.

“So … Harwick?” Jamile persisted.

“Very well, I’ll meet with the man. However, his life will be forfeit should he try to avenge his twin’s son’s twin … which could turn out to be his actual son, now that I consider the matter.”

The Harwick Estate was dark, save for a light in the sitting room. A lone sorcerer, not so elderly anymore, lounged in a high-backed velvet chair before a somber fire. The walls and furnishings were cast in flickering reds and oranges; the glassware on the liquor cart glistened. Anzik had already seen the study, with the stacks of books so clearly labeled, and the stack of translations which he could understand with some effort. The temptation had pulled at his soul, to fall into his father’s own trap of betrayal and deceit. Take the books. Kill Harwick. Slaughter everyone in the heart of Korr’s moon. It would have been so easy.

Of course, none of that accounted for Rynn. While she lived, vengeance would be certain, and Anzik doubted he could evade her for long. His magic was strong, his illusions convincing, but when boiled down to their essence, the tinkers vexed him. They solved problems they had no right to solve, and solving a lone sorcerer, no matter his strength, seemed well within their powers. Still, the temptation existed, and Anzik was forced to live with that as he pulled the lever that switched the viewframe to the active position.

Harwick’s first reaction to the open hole was a long-winded sigh and the draining of his liquor in one gulp. It was not until after that he frowned at Anzik. “And who might you be? Have I become a way-watch for lost Korrish? No … you’re not Korrish, are you?”

“No, I am not,” Anzik replied. He stepped through into Harwick’s sitting room and gestured to a chair. “May I?”

“By all means, and pour yourself a drink if you like,” Harwick replied. “We don’t stand on law and formality here. The age of accountability is a bit lower in Megrenn, especially for a sorcerer, is it not?”

Anzik’s eyebrows rose a hair’s width. “I’m not dressed in Megrenn style. How did you know? Did Madlin warn you?”

“That girl thinks the world is a game of Crackle. I swear if she played chess, she’d hide her pieces,” said Harwick. “But I’m not blind, nor am I the fool some have taken me for. You look just like your father when he was your age.”

“You knew Jinzan?” Anzik asked.

“Knew him?” Harwick replied. “Of course I knew him. He was schooled in the empire, or did he never mention that? We had allowed any fourth-generation occupied Megrenn to attend the Academy, and he was among the first. Supposed to have been long enough to breed out the memory of a free Megrenn, but by the look of it waiting for at least the sixth might have been more prudent. I taught there, like most of the Inner Circle did earlier in their careers. Your father was a brilliant, bitter bastard, stronger in Source than the others in his class, but that light haze of brown in his skin set them against him. In Tellurak, you’d never have known him from full-blooded Acardian, but he could never fool anyone in Kadrin into thinking he was a native.”

“I knew he attended the Imperial Academy, but—”

“You know who I am,” Harwick said, “and I know who you are. The question is: why are we both here right now? I have my answer. I’m here to rest my eyes, burn my throat, and let a warm, pleasant glow settle in my belly after a long day’s work. What about you?”

“I came to tell you about your son’s twin,” Anzik replied.

“My what now?” Harwick asked, setting down his glass and leaning close.

“Danilaesis Solaran had a twin.”

“Blast it and bugger all,” Harwick swore. He stood to pour himself another drink, shaking his head. “All that time I watched for it, he had to awaken after I died. Who is he? Where can I find him? Blessed winds, who mothered him?”

“He went by a shortened form of his Veydran name: Dan. I don’t know what name he was given here, or who his mother was. He’s dead now though.”

Harwick stiffened. The decanter in his hand stopped halfway to the glass. “Dead?”

“He worked with Madlin for a time,” Anzik said. “He fell in with a twinborn named Tanner, and the two of them entered into an arrangement with Madlin and Cadmus Errol. Eventually, Dan’s madness prompted her to end the arrangement.”