Tinker's Justice (29 page)

“I’m glad to hear you think of me as a confidant, and not just a purveyor of delectables.”

“Well, you lived in Acardia and Cadmus trusts you,” Sosha replied. “He can’t get mad at both of us, right?”

“You might be underestimating him.”

Sosha scrunched her nose at Vaulk. “I know he
can
get mad at two people at once, but I mean, he can’t think
both
of us are wrong.”

“What if we are?” Vaulk asked. “What if we find something horrible?”

“Now, don’t let’s tie our laces before the boot’s on,” Sosha replied. “We haven’t even found them yet.”

She pushed a sheet of paper in Vaulk’s direction, covered in handwritten notes. Vaulk skimmed over it. “That’s it? I thought it would be something complicated.”

“It didn’t need to be complicated,” Sosha replied. “Just being written in silly-talk was enough to keep me from understanding it.”

Vaulk drew back, scowling. “There’s nothing wrong with Acardian!”

“I meant what Mr. Harwick translated it from. I’m sure written Acardian is very nice.”

“You sure about this? You said Madlin was against it.”

“Cadmus doesn’t want us bringing the other worlds into this, because they’re too far away and they’re not like our worlds. He says we’ve got enough gears in the works as it is.”

“Well, Veydrus certainly seems to have been more trouble than help.”

“We just got unlucky,” Sosha replied. “Dan and the dragon didn’t work out, but Anzik’s been a big help.”

“I’m no gambler, but one in three doesn’t sound like great odds.” He set the notes down and pushed them in front of Sosha.

“We couldn’t find any negatives for Mr. Draksgollow’s world-ripper flashpop, and we don’t have another way to pull up the Human Replacement Project by the roots. But if we build one of those beacon things to call for help, it would probably come from one of those other worlds. The people who wrote these books ought to be able to find them.”

“Maybe …” Vaulk said, drawing out the first syllable.

“Well, I think it would stand to reason, wouldn’t it? And … well aren’t
you
curious? Madlin and Cadmus can claim they’ve got too much to do, but unless people are getting shot—and thank Eziel we haven’t had much of that lately—I’ve got time to wonder who else is out there.” Sosha paused a moment and caught her breath. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Are you going to tell me how to aim the view-frame to find them, or aren’t you?”

Vaulk grumbled beneath his breath and took up the notes once more. “Which one did you want to try?”

“Olara,” Sosha replied. “It’s the nearest one by the look of it.”

With Vaulk’s assistance, Sosha made the adjustments for a world that was not aligned with Korr. The step-by-step instructions made finding Olara simple, but it would not have been possible without reading the long-form explanation. The writer of the books had included no diagram to explain the procedure.

With one final twist of the world dial—which the book recommended leaving for last—Olara sprang into view.

“What the—”

“Blessed Eziel,” breathed Sosha.

They found themselves looking upon a city of steel and glass towers, stretching off into the sky. Sunlight caught in the glass gleamed a brilliant orange, but left the ground level completely shadowed. Spark lamps more than made up for the difference, bathing the crowded streets in stark blue-white light. Steam wagons of every sort streamed by, with the sides of the road packed with pedestrians. Tiny glassed-in tunnels connected some of the buildings to one another at the higher stories, and they could see people walking through those as well.

The two of them stared for uncounted minutes, awed by the scene. If Korr made Tellurak look backward and primitive, Olara made them both look like lands of cave-dwelling savages.

The steam wagons parted, and the pedestrians scattered as other steam wagons topped with rotating blue and red lamps pushed their way through. The spinning-light steam wagons stopped not far from the viewframe, and uniformed riders exited.

“At least they’re all human,” Vaulk muttered.

Sosha leaned closer to Vaulk, not taking her eyes from the viewframe. “You don’t suppose they can see us, do you?”

Sosha surmised that the uniformed men were Olara’s version of Judicial Enforcement officers. They set up little posts and connected them with yellow ropes, blocking off the area and keeping the pedestrians at bay. More steam wagons arrived, allowed in by Olara’s head-knockers. People in long white coats, carrying strange machines approached the viewframe.

“I … think they might,” Vaulk replied. He wandered closer to the viewframe. “Keep a hand on that switch.” Sosha did as he asked, and watched the response of the men in white coats—actually two of the five were women, she noticed.

Vaulk stood just an arm’s reach from the view of Olara. He waved his arms overhead. He leaned one way, then the other. He shook a fist at the white coat people. There was no response, no sign that any of them could see him.

Or was there? One of the women in white seemed to be staring through the viewframe. She had a nervous tic, jerking her head to one side. On an impulse, Sosha gave one of the fine adjustment dials a slight twist, sliding the view a few feet in the direction the woman seemed to indicate.

The men with the strange machines seemed not to notice, but the woman with the nervous tic nodded and followed the viewframe. She held no machine, but had a clipboard and pen. When she held the clipboard up, angled away from her companions, it had a message scrawled on the back in Korrish:

NOT HERE. NOT NOW. GO.

Vaulk stumbled back from the viewframe. Sosha slammed the switch open, and Olara was gone.

“That was spooky,” said Sosha.

Vaulk nodded. “I don’t think we’ll be asking for help from them anytime soon.”

Chapter 23

“Never allow surprises to divert you from duty.” –Anonymous

It had been too long since Harwick had been home. He supposed he ought to think of himself as Caladris Solaran while he was in Veydrus, but it would take getting used to. The Solaran Estate was dark, save for lights showing through the curtains of two rooms in the servants’ wing. The wagon driver helped him unload his belongings at the main entrance; he should never have gotten so close unchallenged.

Letting the wagon driver free of the magical compulsion that had gained him a free ride across half of Kadris, Harwick strode confidently to the door. He was still a sorcerer, even if he was only a pale Source next to the twin who had died here. He was still a Solaran. The giant iron knocker tempted him for a moment, but he wasn’t about to come home as a beggar or a guest. With a push at just the right spot in the aether, the ward on the door gave way and the door swung inward.

“At least no one changed the lock,” he muttered as he wiped his road-stained boots and stepped inside.

The foyer was well kept, but had an empty feel. The whole place reeked of a museum. “Hey, how about someone gets down here and helps me with my things?” Harwick shouted, using that special volume that toed the line between wanting the whole household to hear and being boorishly rude. The Kadrin language still felt awkward on his tongue. He spoke it infrequently when he still had a twin, and since Caladris’s death, he had rarely had cause.

Footsteps approached from the second story, two pair by the sound of them. When one of the servants emerged onto the landing atop the foyer stairs, he shouted down. “Now, just who do you think you … Sorcerer Caladris? What sort of trick is this?” A second servant poked his head over the railing and ducked back.

“Werthen, Faudrick, if you’d be so good as to fetch my belongings up to my room and rummage up a late dinner, I can explain everything,” Harwick replied. Not that more than every third word would be true—mostly articles and conjunctions—but he had enough of a story prepared for the servants to chew on.

“But how did … but where have … is it really you?”

Harwick sighed. “Yes. If you’re not yet accustomed to Solarans showing up when everyone thinks they’re dead, you’re just going to have to set your jaw and get on with your duties.”

Werthen flashed a nervous smile. “Of course, sir. Right away.” He jerked his head and Faudrick reemerged from the shadows on the landing.

“Where can I find my son these days?”

“Warlock Danilaesis prefers his accommodations at the palace.”

“I’m sure he does,” Harwick muttered. “What about my father? Is the old relic still knocking around someplace? Suppose he’s probably in bed, what with the sun being nearly down.”

“High Sorcerer Axterion has been faring much better of late,” Werthen replied. “And he stays at the palace at the behest of the empress.”

“At the behest, eh?” Harwick asked. “There’s not any … you know …”

“Blessed winds, no, sir,” Werthen replied.

“Fine, then,” said Harwick. “In the morning, send someone to make me an appointment to see the High Sorcerer.”

He had heard through his few remaining contacts that had access to Veydrus about Axterion taking up the position of High Sorcerer. It was amusing, given his father’s age, but Axterion had actually been High Sorcerer for most of Caladris’s life, so it seemed even more a trip to the past than six winters would have credited.

The next morning, Harwick found himself at the door of the High Sorcerer’s office in the Tower of Contemplation. He had been curious about the hole in the very ceiling of the structure, which allowed rainfall down the open central shaft all the way to the entry hall. It had to have pierced the wards in the Inner Sanctum itself. As much as he would have liked answers as to how it had happened, Harwick knew he was walking an icy pond on a warm day. The less he said the better until he spoke with Axterion.

Just as he was about to knock, a voice from inside snapped: “Just get in here.”

Harwick let himself in, and saw the years peeled back from his father. Axterion looked like a man in his hale mature years, just as the last hints of boyishness had left him. His hair was dark, his skin unwrinkled, his eyes sharp and alert. “What are you gawking at, dead man?”

Harwick shut the door behind him. “Fair point. I know this is going to take quite some explanation, but I’m sure I can convince you that—”

“You’re Caladris’s twin. You’ve still got the Acardian slur in your Kadrin,” said Axterion. “Now, skip the boot polish, and tell me why you’re here.”

Harwick blinked. The old man he had left behind in Kadrin had been feeble, senile, and one breath from death at any given moment. “So you were twinborn?” He assumed the past tense, since no one in Tellurak lived as long as Axterion had.

“Caladris—and I don’t intend to bother muddling things up with your Acardian name—I am a busy man, so let’s make this brief. I was never twinborn, but your mother was; I know all about it. We’re in the middle of a war right now because your son got himself one-worlded and decided to go kicking hornets’ nests until he found the one who did it. I imagine he’s got something horrible cooked up for the poor sot, but I’d settle for Danilaesis just killing him and getting it done with. So, since I’ve taken time from my busy day running the Imperial Circle, a war, a fragile new alliance,
and
trying to keep our young warlock from running amok, what did you need to speak with me about?”

“I’m the new ambassador to the Kadrin Empire.”

“Oh, really?” Axterion replied in a mocking tone. “Ambassador from where?”

“From the Megrenn, specifically the one who killed Danilaesis’s twin.”

Axterion gave a single guffaw. “Doesn’t that beat all? Does he even know what he’s done? He’s pitched himself right into a trap.”

“Unfortunately, no. He hasn’t,” Harwick replied. “He’s using these devices, machines built by a twinborn from a third world—”

“Korr. The Mad Tinker’s machine. The boy’s filled me in on the details. Quit wasting my time with things I already know.”

“Anzik Fehr is hidden away in some remote location underground. They were able to keep his whereabouts secret, even sending
him
to meet
me
when he made me the offer: the location of the Korrish rebels’ airship for peace with Megrenn.”

Axterion harrumphed, the most he had seemed like his old self since Harwick had arrived. “Some deal for him. He loses nothing and gains a peace treaty for a war he can’t win.”

“He seems convinced he can win with the tinkers’ help,” said Harwick. “He claims to want to lessen the toll on his people.”

“Noble, if you believe him. Which I don’t.”

“I don’t either, but I didn’t come here to get you to accept the offer.”

“Oh, why then?”

“I came to see if what they’re all saying about Danilaesis is true.”

Axterion sighed and slouched back in his chair. “It would be hard for them to come up with things to say about him that aren’t true. I’d rule out cannibalism, necromancy … probably copulating with animals, but just about anything else you can go ahead and believe.”

“How could you let—” Harwick began.

“How could I have
let
anything?” Axterion leapt from his chair and shouted the question, placing his hands on the desk and leaning across at Harwick. “I was at my wits’ end trying to keep up with that boy. I taught him right from wrong. I taught him to love learning. I taught him how to work his spells as best I could. Then Rashan showed up and tore every moral fiber I’d stuffed into that boy to shreds. I’m still holding hope that he’ll come around when he matures, but it’s a flickering hope, and the winds of war blow mighty strong.”

“Maybe if I talked to him?” Harwick asked. “I at least have to see for myself.”

Axterion slumped back into his chair and waved him away. “Fine. I’ve got other matters to attend. Best of luck with that demon you sired. He should be back around dinnertime.”

Harwick felt his face warm, and he was a man unaccustomed to shame. He backed out of the office and let himself out. Just before the door shut behind him, Axterion called out one final thing. “Oh, and it’s nice to see you again, son.”

“That was harsh,” a voice called out a moment after the door shut.

Axterion glanced up and saw his second ghost of the day. “Brannis! You’re here! I scarcely believed that demon woman when she told me you were alive.” Taller than any among the Solarans, Brannis had always stood out. First as a failed sorcerer, then a knight, then again as a sorcerer of untold might. Anyone who had lived in Kadris six winters ago knew that face from parades and feast-day functions. With young eyes, Axterion could finally see his grown grandson as everyone else had.

“I’ve actually found that Illiardra is a poor liar,” Brannis replied. “Strange. You’d think ten thousand summers would give a demon plenty of practice.”

“What happened between you and Rashan? The official story was you betrayed and attacked him, but both of you perished in the struggle.”

“Who made up that load of dung?” Brannis asked. “That paranoid maniac attacked
me
, and he paid the price for it.”

“But where have you been all this time? We could have used you around here.”

“I took Juliana and we left,” said Brannis. “I can traverse worlds without those machines. But I came here for a reason, and it wasn’t to correct the fictions you’re writing into history. You wanted to see me about Danil?”

“I wouldn’t call him that to his face anymore,” Axterion replied. “It’s Danilaesis … preferably
Warlock
Danilaesis. And he’s sliding down the path to becoming the next Rashan.”

“I heard he already got his twin killed, by friends no less, for the way he’s acted.”

“That’s the rough size of it,” Axterion replied. “He’s not so far gone that he doesn’t know what others think of him, but he doesn’t seem to care.”

Brannis grinned. “I’ll work on that.”

Danilaesis rubbed his eyes as he stumbled into his bedroom. The room was dark save for a sliver of starlight that peeked between the drawn curtains. He had spent most of his days staring into the viewframe as that clod of a daruu wandered the skies above the Korrish sea, looking in vain for Madlin’s airship. There had been no way to save face after the search had begun; he had to continue on until the day’s end or until they found something. The day had ended. As irksome and repetitive as it had been slaughtering farmers and lighting wheat fields aflame, that had been a festival dance compared to staring out over the trackless waters for hours at a stretch. Of all the bloody annoying traits the daruu had displayed, a stoic patience for menial tasks had proven the most vexing.