The First Book of Ore: The Foundry's Edge (23 page)

“Bingo,” Phoebe said.

“Would it resolve matters if we retracted our services, refunded yer payment, and took our leave?”

“NO!” Micah argued.

“Absolutely!” Phoebe replied.

“I see,” Mr. Pynch said, his nozzle twirling. “I confess, Miss Phoebe, yer reservations be not unfounded. Aside from the measurable assistance we have already provided, you have limited reason to trust us. But professionals we be, and we take pride in the satisfaction of our clientele. It would shame us gravely to terminate the contract when we be so close to your objective.”

“How close?” Phoebe asked.

“Less than a cycle. After we procure a vellikran in Tendril Fen, we'll have a jaunt down the Ettalye, and then a brief ascent will take us into the legendary Vo-Pykaron Mountains.” Mr. Pynch gestured to the horizon, and through the coppery foliage Phoebe could see a distant army of jagged peaks.

“Th-that's right!” Dollop agreed. “The Ci-Ci-Cit…It-it-it's just beyond the m-m-mountains. I—I—I remember now.”

“Precisely. A shortcut will wind us through the mighty metropolis of Sen Ta'rine, and from thence, a mere click to your destination.”

“See?” Micah sneered.

“By fusion on the morrow, our collaboration be at an end.”

She looked at Dollop's excited face and Micah's smirk.

“What say you, Miss Phoebe? A truce till then?”

She gave a reluctant nod.

“Excellent.” Mr. Pynch beamed. “You won't be disappointed. Me associate and I be impassioned to demonstrate our merits to you, dear heart.”

Mr. Pynch strolled off, and the Marquis tipped his top hat with the handle of his umbrella before following him. Micah slung his Lodestar into a loop at his hip and threw the water jug hard enough at Phoebe to knock her back a step. With a lingering scowl, she drank from the jug, stuffed it back in the rucksack, and took the bag from Dollop to relieve him.

“Th-thanks,” he chimed. “I-I'm pretty sure my function isn't b-b-bag boy. Come on, we're, um, almost to the river!”

The word hit her like a punch in the gut. The astringent sting of vesper was pungent. Her legs grew unsteady as she stepped through the reddish vegetation. She could hear rapids, and her strength begin to ebb. Phoebe pushed past a waxy copper thicket and joined them at the edge of an embankment.

“There she be,” Mr. Pynch declared proudly. “The River Ettalye. Tireless, benevolent life stream of this region.”

The river gouged a quarter-mile-wide swath through the landscape, extending as far as the eye could see. Phoebe quavered, feeling sweaty and ill. But she refused to let Micah see—she would not give him the satisfaction.

I can do this,
she vowed.

“Tendril Fen be just below,” Mr. Pynch said, scampering down the embankment beneath the weight of his sack. “Don't fret about getting spotted here. It be a backward little hamlet, but all the same, better to let me do the oratizing.”

There was a village sprawling across the shallows of the Ettalye. Nestled among hulking trees with wide canopies of drooping foliage, Phoebe could see squat dome structures floating on separate islands. It was the worst thing she could imagine—a town built right on top of a river. She wanted to turn and run, but she had to keep up with the others.

They descended the embankment and strode beneath clinking, dangling branches as they entered Tendril Fen. Phoebe saw that the willowlike foliage was actually mossy chains of varied length and thickness, dappled green at the tips.

The huts were built from sun-hardened ore and floated on islands of river reeds. They bore big, scooping gears that churned the vesper, and pungent smoke wisped from pointed chutes in their dome roofs. Thick viaducts made from woven chain branches connected the sloshing isles and anchored them to the trees. Buoys like stained yellow teeth bobbed in the vesper.

Mr. Pynch proceeded into town, merrily ambling across one of the bridges. Phoebe trembled as she watched the others cross. She clenched her jaw and took a tentative step onto the chains. They dipped under her weight, and foamy orange fingers grasped at her boot. She fixed her eyes straight ahead and made her way as fast as she dared across the walkway.

There was an unexpected splash, and Phoebe nearly toppled into the river. One of the buoys rose from the vesper—a dingy yellow-robed figure that was beanpole-thin and eerily tall. Identical creatures erupted nearby on stilt-like legs. They backed away, gawking with downturned mouths and frightened eyes. Mr. Pynch gritted a Rattletrap greeting, but they did not respond.

“Just ignore 'em.” He laughed. “They be substantiating their stereotype. Most mehkans consider syllks more than a wee bit feebleminded. This-a-way!”

Phoebe stumbled across the bridge and tried to collect herself. This appeared to be some sort of market. There was a syllk fishmonger with a rack of squidgy critters like knots of Bike chains, and carvers crafting waterwheels from sections of metal tree trunk. As soon as their dark, glistening eyes fixed on the kids, they abandoned their wares. All around them, villagers scurried away, their clinking robes flapping. Mr. Pynch perused the catch of the day and snatched up a string of them. He drew out a handful of shiny red, oval-shaped rings and left them in a neat stack for the fishmonger.

“Fresh culps, anyone?” he rumbled. The other mehkans nodded eagerly.

She felt eyes boring into her back and turned to see an uneasy crowd forming on the islands, groups of huddled syllks staring from beneath chain canopies. More emerged from squat huts, waddling out on legs folded beneath their billowing gowns. She could feel their anxious terror and hear their low gurgling whispers.

Humans were not welcome here.

Phoebe wanted to cry out and explain that despite her appearance, she wasn't like the others. But it was useless. The syllks would never understand. She was the enemy, the same as any other bleeder invading their home.

“Come on, Plumm. Hurry it up,” Micah chuckled back to her. “You're lookin' a little green, there.”

Phoebe wanted to put him in his place, but she knew she couldn't speak without betraying her panic. The penetrating stares of the villagers shredded her with guilt, which melted miserably into her fear of the churning tide.

Mr. Pynch led them across another precarious bridge to a hut that bore a mess of waterwheel gears with chains running into the river like the threads of a loom. The vesper surrounding the island was sprouting with tufts of feathery, palmlike growths dappled in green corrosion. A squatting syllk began to retreat inside his hut, but Mr. Pynch hailed him in Rattletrap. The fat mehkan unstrapped the foil satchel, drew out a set of wicker doormats and a wooden salad bowl, and then offered his treasures to the syllk with a dirty golden smile.

Phoebe focused on her breathing and studied the syllk to distract herself from the roiling river. His yellowed robes weren't clothes at all, but a flowing membrane of chain-link skin that twitched and pulsed. Folded beneath this mesh curtain was a pair of arms covered in cinching, hook-like digits. His head was a jowly protuberance with a toothless frown, and his dark eyes squished and flickered behind layers of translucent lids. The syllk glanced at the humans and retreated farther into his hut. Mr. Pynch bombarded the nervous villager with florid Rattletrap, offering up more treasures from his sack.

Everything began to fit into place in her mind. She remembered his words:
a jaunt down the Ettalye
. Mr. Pynch was trying to charter a boat.

No sooner had this realization struck her than Mr. Pynch laughed. He thanked the villager profusely and resealed his bag with a twist of the valve.

“One vellikran coming up!” he announced.

“A velli-wha—” Micah began, but his voice was drowned out by a clattering mechanism. The syllk operated his waterwheel, manipulating chains by grabbing them with the clenching hooks along his arms. The vesper behind them bubbled and frothed, and one of the feathery green growths splayed open.

The fronds were attached to stems that spread out wide.

No, they were legs.

A long thorax breached the vesper, speckled with greenish corrosion and encrusted in copper barnacles. Bundled antenna slashed about at its front, surrounded by a ring of milk-bubble eyes. The fronds of its three spindly legs stretched across the surface to keep it gracefully afloat. The vellikran shook, sloughing orangey oil from its rear, which was a skirt of the same palm material. Then its tail began to spin, chugging and fluttering like a propeller. The creature buzzed faster, tugging at its tether, raring to race across the river.

“No…freakin'…way,” Micah muttered.

Phoebe nearly collapsed. If there was anything in the world worse than a boat ride, this was it.

The syllk strode into the vesper to secure a chain bridle on the vellikran's body. He cranked a wheel on the harness, and four panels swung up from the steed's side, coming together to form a tall bucket for passengers on its back.

“All aboard!” trumpeted Mr. Pynch. He tottered across the jangling leash that led over the vesper and hopped into the bucket, tossing his big satchel in the back. The Marquis bounded up the chain next and settled near the front. He scrubbed at splatters on his pant legs with a handkerchief.

“D-d-does it bite?” Dollop asked, as he climbed up. “H-hi there, girl. You're a n-n-nice girl, aren't you?” he cooed. The vellikran responded with an abrupt shake of its flanks. Dollop scampered aboard as fast as he could.

“You look like crap,” Micah needled Phoebe.
“
'Bout to pass out again?”

“Shut up and leave me alone.”

“My pleasure,” Micah chuckled. “Ladies first.”

She closed her eyes, blocking him and all those staring syllks from her mind. She tried to force out the sound of the crashing river too. A few steps, that was it. Just had to look ahead, not at the orange surge beneath her feet.

Phoebe clenched her jaw and walked out onto the leash. The walkway wavered. Another step, then another.

The chain jostled. Her feet slipped.

The Ettalye grabbed her like a cold, oily hand. She thrashed and strained to keep her head up, but the vesper splashed in her mouth, driving her to greater panic. Immediately, the three mehkans were upon her, their faces full of concern as they hauled her, drenched, into the vellikran bucket.

But not Micah.

He was bent over in a fit of giggles. With another swift shake of the leash, he showed her what he had done. He then scrambled up the chain like a sewer rat, hopped into the bucket, and leered down at her.

“THAT was for the rust slug…”

His words faded as he saw her. Phoebe's heart convulsed in her chest. Fright warped her features. Tears pushed at the corners of her eyes, threatening to fall. But she refused. She had vowed a long time ago that she would never cry again, that no one else was worth her tears. Especially not Micah.

She crawled away from him and squeezed herself around Mr. Pynch's huge satchel, putting it between her and the others. Fumbling for her hood and face mask, she yanked it down over her head to seal herself off from the world.

There was an exchange of muted voices, the dull jangle of chains, and a whirring drone as the vellikran embarked. Phoebe hugged her knees and closed her eyes, focusing on the thing she wanted most of all.

To forget.

 

  understand your concerns, but the terms are not negotiable,” Goodwin explained coolly. “My offer is exceedingly generous. Now, what is your decision?”

The Chairman stood with five representatives of the elusive Board, directors sent from Foundry Central to supervise this meeting. Each of them wore an identical, unassuming gray suit and a tiny silver earpiece. Kaspar lingered by the door, his long shadow hanging over the proceedings. The conference room was wood-paneled and dark, lit only with a few soft pyramid lamps and a giant Televiewer screen that took up one wall.

Projected on the screen was a man's glowering face. He was decked out in an embroidered uniform that clinked with military medals, and his slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair clung to his skull like a helmet. He leaned away to consult a league of solemn, black-wigged magisters beneath the giant yellow and indigo crosshatched flag of Trelaine.

Goodwin was immobile, betraying none of the tension of the moment. But he could feel it weighing down the room.

Premier Lavaraud turned to address him. “We accept.”

The directors nodded in approval. Goodwin's demeanor suggested that he had never doubted this result.

“But know this,” Lavaraud continued. “Trelaine will not tolerate another betrayal from Meridian.”

“I do not play politics, Premier. The Foundry always delivers on its promises.”

“You have one week to produce this
exceedingly generous
offer of yours. Should you fail,” he said, planting his hands on his desk, “I will submit to the Quorum that we take immediate and drastic action.”

“You have my word—I am committed to avoiding such measures.”

“Let us hope so. And let us hope your word is better than that of your swine-suckling Saltern.”

“The President's remarks were unfortunate,” Goodwin admitted. “But I believe our agreement today represents movement toward a peaceful resolution. I am glad we could bypass the usual channels in order to address these urgent matters face-to-face.”

“One week,” Lavaraud reiterated. “I assume you are satisfied with our intelligence regarding Dr. Plumm?”

“I am. You have my thanks for the full disclosure.”

The Premier gave a curt nod, and the image on the Televiewer flickered off. Kaspar faded up the light.

“A promising first step,” Goodwin noted.

“Promising? We call it a blasted victory,” laughed Director Malcolm, a leathery old gentleman with brilliantly white-capped teeth.

“Our work is not yet done,” cautioned Goodwin. “But we are well on our way to assembling the first shipment. Once they receive the payment in full, we will see how the rest of the Quorum responds to Lavaraud's move.”

“Who would have guessed the Trels could be bought?” remarked Director Layton, a blond middle-aged woman with beady eyes and hawklike features.

“They are proud, but they are not fools,” Goodwin mused. “In the end, everyone has a price.”

“When they see the boon coming to Trelaine, the other mongrels will come begging for a similar deal.” Director Malcolm smiled.

“Let us hope so,” agreed the Chairman.

“Can we provide that?” asked Director Layton. “The Board has observed that harvesting in sectors seven and ten is on the decline. We are impressed by the boost in overall output these last few days, James, but can you sustain it?”

“I can and will,” Goodwin reassured her. “The bridge across the Veltran Gap is near completion, and it will give us unfettered access to thousands of untapped acres to the west. And the new hatcheries are allowing us to harvest units nearly eleven percent faster than previous estimates.”

“We've studied the recent numbers,” said Director Obwilé, a handsome and contemplative young man with dark skin and glasses. “Impressive.”

“Largely due to the new Durall plants coming on line,” Goodwin explained. “Our response to Fuselage, regrettable as it was, sent a clear message. Now the rest of the Chusk Bowl is working around the clock.”

Director Malcolm guffawed. “The Transit Coordinators must be pulling their hair out trying to move it all!”

“A welcome problem, to be sure,” said Director Layton.

“Does that mean the Board approves?” Goodwin inquired.

She affixed him with her dark gaze and touched her earpiece. “We are quite pleased, James. Although when news of our deal with Trelaine reaches President Saltern, he'll be furious that you went behind his back.”

Goodwin sighed. “Saltern has been uncooperative of late. All of that swagger may get his constituents salivating, but it is counterproductive to our aims. I owe the President a visit. He needs to be reminded of his place.”

Director Malcolm flashed his blinding smile and rose. “Well then,” he trumpeted, “shall we make an announcement?”

The Chairman nodded. “An excellent idea. We should—”

“If I may,” interjected Director Obwilé.

Goodwin raised an eyebrow. The Board members regarded him silently.

“This is wonderful news, of course,” the young director said, “but we were hoping to hear an update on the trespassers.”

“The children, you mean?”

“The security breach. The Board is rather surprised at your lack of concern.”

“I am aware of their location and am frankly more intrigued by their progress than in capturing them.”

“You would gamble with the Foundry's safety so brazenly?”

The smile left Goodwin's face.

“On a day with less momentous news, I might be inclined to take offense at your rather extraordinary insinuation.”

“James, you would do well to—”

“I understand your concern, but soon they will be found, alive or otherwise. In either case, the Board can rest well knowing they are of no consequence. Shall we?”

Director Obwilé adjusted his glasses and looked to the other Board members, who scrutinized the Chairman emotionlessly.

Goodwin left the conference room flanked by the directors. They strode out onto the platinum and marble landing to look down at the central lounge, which swirled with Foundry elite. The atrium was a wonder of light and crystal, twinkling like the firmament, with four statues of winged women holding up the intricate chrome ceiling. With velvety Durall sofas, lilting music, and an ever-replenished bar and gourmet kitchen, this lounge was the pinnacle of luxury.

One would never guess it was in the heart of the Citadel. These resplendent walls, awash in silversilk draperies and priceless oil paintings, had witnessed unspeakable horrors. Torture chambers had been converted into a decadent complex with living quarters, an entertainment theater, and a gymnasium complete with indoor pools. For the executives and supervisors stationed in Mehk for weeks at a time, it was like a grand hotel.

The hundred or so revelers hushed their conversations as they noticed Goodwin and the representatives from the Board. The music faded, and Director Malcolm pushed a tumbler of fine spirits into Goodwin's hand. The Chairman waited for silence before speaking—he savored their anticipation.

“Friends. For too long, we have lived under a growing threat of war. While we strive to improve the lives of every man, woman, and child, the Quorum rattles its sabers. They hunger for our innovations, try to lay claim to our metal, and left unchecked they would seek to achieve their ends by force. But we are unmoved. In the spirit of peace, we have extended our hand to Trelaine.”

Murmurs spread, and Goodwin couldn't help but smile.

“I have spoken directly with Premier Lavaraud, and he has accepted the terms of our offer. Upon completion of the agreement…” He paused dramatically. “Trelaine will withdraw from the Quorum.”

Gasps rippled throughout the assembly.

“This is not my achievement,” Goodwin continued. “It is
our
achievement, that of the entire Foundry. And with this bold first step, so begins the end of the Quorum. Unhindered, we will build a better, brighter future.”

The lounge erupted into applause.

“Thank you all,” Goodwin called out over the din.

“To Meridian,” Director Malcolm cheered.

“To Meridian!” Goodwin bellowed in approval and took a deep drink.

The lounge rang with cries of “To Meridian!”

Goodwin looked around the room to see eyes brimming with tears and people embracing. Enduring peace was on the horizon at long last.

Director Obwilé was the only one not drinking.

From the corner of his eye, Goodwin saw the towering shape of Kaspar duck away. The Chairman frowned and followed him down a high-ceilinged corridor lined with slim golden buttresses.

“Where do you think you're going?” Goodwin demanded.

“I don't like these affairs,” Kaspar grumbled.

“I told you to wait until I had a moment to deal with you.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” he said, turning to face Goodwin's wrath.

“Not good enough. Do you know what you have done?”

“Only my job, Mr. Goodwin.”

“Quite the opposite. I ordered you not to use excessive force. So what do you do? You send him to the medic, nearly dead from loss of blood. His condition is dire, and now there is risk of infection. Explain yourself.”

“I…” Kaspar muttered, cowed, “…lost control.”

“That is because Jules is smarter than you,” Goodwin snapped and took another swallow of his drink. “He provoked you into incapacitating him to prevent me from getting what I need.”

“But he is useless now,” Kaspar argued. “We have his confession, and the Trels confirmed his story. Why are we still playing his games?”

“Did I seek your counsel on this matter?”

“No, sir.”

“Then keep your simpleminded presumptions to yourself.”

Kaspar flinched. Goodwin felt a twinge of guilt—it was the drink talking. He collected himself and settled his temper.

“Jules told the truth about his arrangements for asylum in Trelaine, yes, but he is holding something back. I suspect he has been selling information to the Quorum, although I cannot prove it. Yet. He is a conspirator, and I will not have you jeopardizing Meridian's safety by interfering with my acquisition of that information. Do you understand me?

“Yes, sir.” Kaspar bowed even lower.

“You are certain you are still up to the task?”

“I will not fail you.”

“Good. Now, be patient.” Goodwin lifted Kaspar's chin with a finger to look him in the eyes. “It won't be long, dear boy. I will let you know when your gloves can come off.”

A perverse grin cut across the soldier's cracked lips. The Chairman affectionately slapped Kaspar's hard, sallow cheek and downed his drink.

Then he turned to rejoin the celebration. He had earned it.