Waybound (2 page)

The thiaphysi were regarded for their intellect and eloquence, but Mr. Pynch's sudden enthusiasm was due to their reputation for sentimentality (and gullibility). As the ribbons of her body whirled through her rollers, the mehkan's slender fingers danced across the belts, emitting a singsong voice from her hands.

“I apologize for your undignified treatment,” the thiaphysi said, “but immediate action was required, and secrecy is our priority. We know what you have done.”

“Pardon?” Mr. Pynch's mouth was suddenly dry. The Marquis's shutters fluttered anxiously.

“The conflict in the Vo-Pykarons,” she continued. “The part you two played in hindering the capture of liodim.”

Mr. Pynch's nozzle ticked, trying to sniff out a mood on the thiaphysi. He detected the bitter tang of irritation. Was she angry about the Vo-Pyks? Perhaps these mehkies were bleeder collaborators, planning on selling him and the Marquis out.

“We had no intention of tampering with the Foundry's operations. Me associate and I endeavored to avoid engaging—”

“It was a noble deed,” she interrupted, the words emanating from her hands. “You have our deepest gratitude.”

“—until we could strategize the most effective means of disrupting the cull,” continued Mr. Pynch without missing a beat. “If there be one thing we cannot abide, it be injustice. We felt the urgent need to rescue the liodim posthaste.”

Blinkety-blink-flash
, the Marquis strobed with excitement.

The thiaphysi glanced at the Marquis but gave no indication that she understood. Prompted by his partner's urgent words, Mr. Pynch looked again at the thiaphysi and her cohorts and gasped as he saw the familiar symbol adorning their chests.

Well, rust take him! How could he have missed that?

“To be downright frankly with you,” Mr. Pynch confessed with a grimy golden smile, “we had little choice in the matter. It felt to be our duty. Our function, you might say.”

Their captors exchanged a brief look.

“You are Waybound?” she asked, clutching a delicate fist over her blood-red dynamo.

“Praise the gears!” Mr. Pynch proclaimed. The Marquis emitted a burst of joyous light. “Here we were, cogitating that we were the only pilgrims left in the Lateral Provinces still adhering to the edicts. Well, that be that. I suppose we'll be on our way then. Gettin' on with doing Her good work.”

“Of course,” came the thyaphysi's gestured words. “Perhaps you intend to bring Her message back to the Gauge Pit?”

The Marquis's opticle faded. The pungent stab of pure loathing curdled in Mr. Pynch's nozzle.

“Now it not be…” he began, then stopped to collect his racing thoughts. “What precisely did you hear? The facts be obscure, but I most suredly assure you, they do exonerate us.”

“Silence,” snarled the volmerid, shaking his matted mane of steel wool. He retracted the chain-link digits of his grotesquely swollen fist with a snap.

Mr. Pynch and the Marquis saw a ripple of movement in the corner. They turned to face the aios—the ghastly mehkies were closer, now within striking distance, frozen like statues of black ice. They hadn't made a sound.

“We know all about you,” the thiaphysi said, the movements of her speaking hands choppy across her spiraling ribbons. “Informants and parasites. You vowed to protect the children, then betrayed them.” Her fingers were an agitated blur.

Unconsciously, Mr. Pynch's hands fluttered to the rough stitches that Phoebe had made on his green silk necktie. “The bleeders?” he asked, confused. “What they be to you?”

“That is not your concern,” she stated harshly. “You are prisoners. Fugitives of the Foundry for your actions in the Vo-Pykarons, reviled by us for deceiving the children.” She lowered her singsong voice. “Your embers are forfeit.”

Mr. Pynch braced himself, tensing his legs to evade the attack he knew must be coming. The Marquis tightened his grip on his dingy umbrella.

“And yet…” she said, the silken belts slowing through her hands. “There is another way. Makina shapes a path even for those who are lost. You must make amends.”

“What way?” queried Mr. Pynch. “What you be wanting?”

“Not what we want. What She wants. We will spare you. In exchange, you will serve Her.”

Flicker-flash-blink.

Mr. Pynch agreed with the Marquis. This did not bode well.

“Aid us in our strike against the Foundry.” The thiaphysi leaned in very close, and her potent hate made Mr. Pynch want to cap his nozzle. “Or we, the Covenant, will send you to meet Her beyond the Shroud.”

J
ames Goodwin adjusted his broad frame in the absurdly ornate armchair to keep its stony cushion from cutting off his circulation. It never failed to amaze him how gaudy and outmoded these people's taste was, with none of the Foundry's modern, streamlined elegance. Through a circular window trimmed with brocaded curtains, he saw ponderous clouds enveloping the embassy, while the yellow and indigo flag of Trelaine snapped fiercely in the winds from the bay.

Normally, it was good to return to Albright City. Not today.

He had been alone in this oppressive office for an hour, taking care not to glance at the Omnicams, lest it convey impatience. Premier Lavaraud was undoubtedly taking pleasure in keeping him waiting, but Goodwin would not acknowledge the insult. He sat inert, gazing placidly at the patriotic busts and tedious porcelain knickknacks vainly adorning every shelf.

“Be submissive and present the offer as we instructed.”

“You will not return until he agrees to the new terms.”

The voices of the enigmatic Board in Foundry Central were like drips of poison in his mind. As part of Goodwin's punishment, a silver bud had been grafted to his inner ear, and it was still sore where the device had been affixed. Now there was no way to evade their pestilent words.

In all his years working for the Foundry, he had only met the five representatives, or directors, as they were known. Of course, their faces had changed on occasion as one was demoted or replaced, but their purpose was always the same: to speak for the Board. No one knew a thing about the Foundry's true masters—not their number, their identities, or their ultimate intentions. Until receiving this detestable earpiece, Goodwin had never even heard their voices. Now he was never free of them. It was just one of many humiliations he had suffered in the long hours since the fall of the Citadel.

“Address him at all times as ‘Your Excellency.'”

“Assume all responsibility.”

One line was repeated over and over, as if he could forget:

“We are listening.”

At last, Lavaraud entered, brushing past Goodwin without a word of greeting. He was dressed in a long, traditional Trelainian topcoat of dark blue silk, secured by ivory fastenings. Though the Premier was a small man, he was whip lean and imposing with a sepulchral face capped in a helmet of salt-and-pepper hair. Lavaraud's eyes were dark, hooded by heavy lids that seemed to blink in slow motion.

“Your Excellency,” Goodwin intoned, forcing a kindly smile. “You have my thanks for meeting on such short notice.”

“I detest your city,” Lavaraud stated, his heavily accented voice hard and inexpressive, as he sat behind a vast mahogany desk. “I arrive in ungodly heat and now this?” He gestured to the overcast sky outside. “I detest all things…unpredictable.”

“Yet we are honored by your presence,” Goodwin replied.

“Your Excellency,”
instructed a voice in Goodwin's earpiece.

“Your Excellency,” he added.

“Praise him for allowing diplomatic relations to resume.”

“Allow me to express our gratitude that Trelaine has chosen to ally with Meridian, Your Excellency. We are fortunate to have such a committed partner for peace. Needless to say, the day your nation leaves the Quorum will be a momentous occasion.”

“Let us be clear,” the Premier declared. “You are buying our conditional loyalty, and we have accepted. Conditionally. A bribe, nothing more. Now come to the point. You are not here to merely ooze flattery.”

Goodwin ran a hand through his snow-white hair, brushing his tender ear where the bud was implanted. “Of course, Your Excellency. As you recall, your shipment of metal substrates, ultra-high-tensile ingots, beams, and components was to arrive in full by the week's end. Unfortunately, we are experiencing a series of production setbacks that has led to key raw materials being contaminated, thus—”

“You take me for a fool?” bellowed Lavaraud as he sprang to his feet. “You would toy with Trelaine at such a time? How dare you try and scheme your way out of this!”

“Remain contrite.”

“Mollify him. This is the crucial moment.”

“Your Excellency,” pleaded Goodwin, clutching his hands together. “I share your frustration. Which is precisely why I have come to you with a more favorable offer.”

“He will acquiesce. Trelaine's economy needs this.”

“Favorable for whom?” seethed Lavaraud.

“Trelaine, of course,” Goodwin softly explained. “I believe you will be quite pleased with the generous compensation. All we ask is your continued patience and understanding.”

“Patience! All your promises, all your puffery and rhetoric. Pah!” he spat. “Admiral Imaro is right to lobby for the Quorum to cease peace talks with Meridian. Perhaps war is the only option.”

“Submit, James.”

“This is your doing. Assume all responsibility.”

“Your failure at the Citadel has caused this predicament.”

“Your Excellency. I know you are a prudent and honorable man. I know that you seek only what is best for your people. Please, hear me out.”

“And why would I trust a word of what you have to say? You break one vow, then offer another.” Lavaraud sneered. “What kind of man are you?”

Goodwin lowered his head, sighed heavily, and began to weave his story. “A man disgraced, I confess. In my haste to expedite the process, I issued an order to bypass the Foundry's usual inspection regimen. That is how your shipment came to be contaminated. Rather than send you an inferior product, I have elected to personally beg your forgiveness. And as a sign of good faith, I am prepared to improve upon my initial offer.”

Lavaraud's stare bored into him. Goodwin withdrew a document from his coat pocket.

“One half of the agreed-upon shipment, delivered as scheduled by the end of the week, prior to the Council of Nations conference,” Goodwin said. “The remaining half, plus an additional ten percent in raw materials, will be delivered no more than two weeks later.”

Lavaraud scoured the document as he dropped into his seat.

For the first time since the earpiece had been implanted, Goodwin savored a moment of silence as the Board awaited the Premier's response.

“Twenty percent,” Lavaraud uttered through clenched teeth.

Goodwin furrowed his heavy white brows.

“And because of your failure,” Lavaraud added, “I must delay Trelaine's exit from the Quorum.”

“But Your Excellency, I—”

“Let him speak, James.”

“Until I see this payment in full, how can there be trust? The Foundry must prove its dedication to our alliance before I can make such a bold declaration and abandon my comrades.”

“Let him have this small victory.”

“But ensure that he doesn't jeopardize our deal in the interim.”

“I understand your concerns,” Goodwin said. “The Foundry, of course, will need your assurance that Trelaine will remain neutral and make no further commitments to the Quorum.”

Lavaraud gave a slight nod. “For the time being.”

“Accept.”

“Then it is done.” Goodwin returned the document to his breast pocket. “Our team will revise the amendment as discussed and return it for your signature within the hour. I assure you. There will be nothing else…unpredictable.”

Goodwin chuckled, but the Premier was not amused. He pushed a button on his desk, and a security escort appeared.

“My profound thanks for your understanding, Your Excellency,” Goodwin said with a hand pressed over his heart, “and again my most humble apologies.”

He bowed to Lavaraud and followed the escort out of the room, maintaining his expression of heartfelt repentance until his back was to the Premier.

“We approve.”

“An acceptable performance.”

Never had Goodwin groveled so. He was a worn-out old lion, tormented and tamed, forced to perform tricks for invisible ringmasters. It sickened him to the core.

He was escorted out the embassy's front doors and into the sinking sauna of the day's foul weather. His suit clung to him like a wet bandage as he was led down a hedge-lined walkway, through lofty wrought-iron gates, and off the premises.