Deep Roots (11 page)

 

CHAPTER 8

R
ain poured like viscous oil, but that didn't deter the crowds who gathered to watch the spontaneous parade. Rivka stood on a tenth-­story catwalk along the plaza, Tatiana's building within sight. The metal roof overhead roared beneath the deluge, the sound like a bare-­rimmed cabriolet on cobbles. Men and women pressed around her, faceless within hoods and beneath steep umbrellas, voices and rain melded in cacophony.

At the Arena below, the banners for the morrow's bout hung, sodden. A cheer rose from the throngs on the street and carried up to the ­people on walkways all around, from open windows, rooftops, likely even the airships circling overhead.

Then Rivka saw Lump.

He was a green-­and-­copper blotch as large as a lorry. Tatiana was a slender speck within the saddle cage on his back. His completed wings, webbed with living flesh, were graceful swoops stretching ten feet up, even folded. There was a bounce to his step. Maybe he reacted to the adulation of the crowd, or perhaps he also understood this jaunt was something more: that he was leaving Mr. Cody's stable. Permanently.

A nearby businessman had offered to house the behemoth chimera in his warehouse, and once spring came, there were several offers from farms to house him out in the countryside. It wasn't clear yet which option was best, but there was time, and Grandmother was nothing if not shrewd. Mr. Cody still technically owned the chimera and his associated technology, but he had ceded control.

“Mama! Mama! It's beautiful!” cried a small voice. A young child leaned against the railing, a puffy arm pointed at Lump.

The chimera vanished behind a stone building. The crowd on the walkway began to disperse. Rivka lingered as if she still saw them there on the street.

“
It's beautiful.
” Words she wanted to glue in her mind for when she was haunted by thoughts of her own ugliness and inadequacies.

She walked toward Tatiana's flat, where Broderick, the gremlins, and an afternoon of work awaited her.

It's beautiful.

“H
old him there. Just like that,” said Broderick. His eyes were closed in concentration.

He and Rivka crouched together on a medician blanket within Tatiana's gremlin room, a gremlin between them. The blanket was a portable version of the circle like in Mr. Cody's laboratory, designed to attract the Lady's attention for healings. It was big enough for a sprawled adult though this work required them to be in close proximity. Despite Grandmother's ribbing, Rivka didn't experience any hot tingles or distracted thoughts from Broderick's closeness. He was a comfortable presence, and he seemed to feel the same.

The door to the room was wide open. The three gremlins were being housebroken. A copper cage acted as a time-­out zone, where one currently moped. Grandmother had already announced a forthcoming work on the care and house-­training of gremlins. Thus far, the chimeras took to their disciplinary efforts quite well. Certainly with more enthusiasm than Tatiana's beleaguered servants.

Miss Leander had written to advise that gremlins adored hard cheese, too. That reward acted as a powerful motivator.

Broderick's thumb pressed on the cauterized nub where the gremlin's wing once was. He muttered to himself, then opened his eyes as he reached for a notepad. Paragraphs of observations already littered the page. Later, he would likely rewrite his notes and mail them northward. Like Rivka, Broderick had begun an enthusiastic correspondence with Kellar Dryn as they worked together from afar to restore the gremlins.

Once spring came, Rivka and Grandmother were going to travel to Caskentia's North Country for Octavia and Alonzo's wedding. Mr. Dryn and his wife would be there as well, and he had invited them to visit his workshop afterward. Perhaps Rivka would find a place to apprentice herself after all—­and in Caskentia, at that.

Rivka released the gremlin. He had a scrawny face, his ears a little high on his head, and a squeak like a wheel in need of oil. He hopped to test the edge of the circle, but the heat of the Lady's presence kept him inside.

When Broderick called on the Lady for
this
work, she answered quickly and profoundly. Her magic was like a furnace. Sweat dribbled down Rivka's back. Not that she would complain, not when she could see how Broderick's confidence—­his faith—­was buoyed.

He set down the pencil, the beads in his dreadlocks rustling as he lifted his head. “By the way, please thank your grandmother for me. I appreciate the invitation for tomorrow, but you know how Miss Arfetta's schedule has changed.”

In
Gem
, Tatiana had written about medicians as a suffering subclass like the gremlins themselves—­misunderstood by society, simply struggling to survive. ­People were now openly curious about the magical art, and business had boomed.

“It was only right to invite you. Tatiana can't be with us, either, of course.” She grinned. “Oh, you should have seen the ­people outside just now, Broderick! Mr. Cody must be having conniptions.”

Broderick held a cupped hand toward the gremlin. The critter sniffed at his fingertips from several inches away. The gremlins still didn't fully trust him; Rivka needed to be present during this preparatory work.

“What will you say to Mr. Cody in his own Arena?”

“I don't know.” The gremlin hopped into her lap, and she stroked the curved ridge of his spine. “I want it to be something good. Profound.”

The other free gremlin loped into the room and right to the edge of the blanket. It was the sole female in the group, the boldest of the bunch. She sniffed and held an arm to the hot edge of magic, then jerked back. The one on Rivka's lap mewed and waved, as if to taunt.

The female gremlin stuck out her tongue and blew a perfect raspberry.

“That,” said Broderick, laughing, “is a different sort of profound.”

 

CHAPTER 9

“A
re you sure he'll be here, Grandmother?”

“Absolutely! A man of his ilk, as the subject of such scrutiny, will wish to be seen on his own terms. This is his Arena, his territory. He's marked it as surely as any tomcat!”

Rivka certainly hoped not. If the Arena had any scent, it was of bodies, sweat, and the harsh lemon of cleansers, and they weren't even in the tightly pressed masses below. Grandmother had purchased a private suite not far from Cody's. The guards down the hall had been generously tipped to notify them when Mr. Cody was on the way.

Ten seats were squeezed inside the booth, arranged in two rows to overlook the Arena. The scope was . . . magnificent. Rivka hadn't expected to feel that way, knowing the horrors that could have befallen Tatiana and Lump, but the place was an architectural marvel. The metal mountain was about a hundred feet high, with built-­in switchbacks and cliffs and platforms for the mechas to claim as they battled to reach the top.

The gremlin on Rivka's shoulder chirped. It seemed only right to bring one along for this face-­off with Mr. Cody. Grandmother had insisted the gremlin wear a cuff and a chain that attached to Rivka's wrist, but bold little Emerald didn't seem to mind. She was content clinging to Rivka's broad collar, her eyes wide as she took in everything.

“Anytime now.” Grandmother paced, taking frequent glances at her timepiece. Two guards she'd hired lingered at the back of the suite.

Rivka smoothed her skirt. Grandmother had ordered a new dress made for this occasion, and this time Rivka had requested one of Frengian style. It was thoroughly unfashionable by Tamaran standards, with its bell sleeves, folded front, and defined and belted waist, and she loved it.

Even more, Grandmother had ordered it be dyed in a mottled gray and brown, as if it were oil-­stained all over. Not that Rivka planned on fixing machinery during any fancy dinner parties anytime soon, but as Grandmother always said, one should be prepared.

Emerald the gremlin pivoted an ear, then lunged from Rivka's shoulder to the floor. Rivka followed before the chain could tighten. The guards leaped up.

“Don't go far, child!” called Grandmother, as if Rivka had any control over the matter.

Emerald scampered down the hallway. Rivka pulled on the chain with both hands, but as light as the gremlin was, she was awfully strong. Emerald hopped through a doorway, where a maid stood with a cart of fresh linens.

“Hey! You can't go in there!”

This was a suite designed for royalty. It gleamed. It had space for dozens of ­people to sit or lounge. A full bar stood against one wall, and by the chimes of glass, a bartender was busy in the pantry. By the location, by everything, this had to be Mr. Cody's suite. Emerald screeched and forced Rivka to turn around.

Past a buffet, a golden cage towered in the corner. Inside was a massive gremlin the size of a toddler. Rivka had never seen the like.

“You!” The maid's fingers clenched Rivka's arm.

“Let her go.” One of Grandmother's men scowled from the doorway.

“Can't have just anyone in here. It's more'n my job's worth.” The maid took in Rivka's odd yet luxurious dress, her focus resting on Rivka's face a bit longer than proper. Rivka stared at her evenly as she reached inside her pocket.

“For your trouble.” Rivka flashed a gilly coin. “I'll only stay a few minutes.”

The maid snatched the coin away. “Two minutes. The man's bound to get here anytime.” She shook her head. “Gremlins as pets. Never thought I'd see the like.” She stalked to her cart. The guard remained in the doorway.

Rivka walked toward the big cage. Emerald scampered up her body to claim her shoulder roost again.

On the base of the cage was a small sign:
PRIME: THE FIR
ST GREMLIN
.

“The very first gremlin? I wonder why you're still here,” Rivka said. “So many of the other gremlins are getting new homes.”

The construction of this gremlin was different than all the others she had seen. The wings were massive to support the body, its skin seams poorly healed and mismatched in green blotches. The snout was long, its eyes large and round like coat buttons. It looked old. Haggard.

“Been here long time.” The words croaked out, and the lips parted to reveal a bitter, sharp smile. “Called personal pet for Cody.”

Rivka caught her breath. “You talk.” This was one of the gremlins Mr. Cody had mentioned, one that acted as translator for the rest.

“Oldest do. Also listen. We know you, what you do.” Prime granted a curt nod to Emerald on her shoulder. “What you plan to do. You, like Tree Medician. To us, worth more than silver.”

The Tree Medician. Miss Leander. Unable to speak through the tightness in her throat, Rivka pressed a fist to her chest to salute Prime. Then, her fingers searched her sleeve for her trusty screwdriver hidden in the seam. She leaned against the bars to work the lock.

“You need your freedom.”

“Freedom?”

“You need to wait until the Arena is quiet again later tonight to leave.” Hopefully no ­people would test the lock in the next while. “Can you do that?”

“I wait. I wait a long time.” Prime's eyes stared through her. “You. More than silver.”

At that, Rivka retreated from the suite. Emerald was strangely mute on her shoulder.

“Well! How far did that gremlin drag you? Did you get into mischief?” Grandmother scoured Rivka with her gaze.

“M'lady?” called one of the men. “We're being signaled. Cody's coming.”

Rivka and Grandmother moved to the hallway. Mr. Cody approached with a full retinue. His stride showed no hesitation at their presence, but he did nothing to hide his grimace, as if he'd smelled a manure lorry.

“Mrs. Stout. Miss Stout,” he said coolly as he bowed. “Congratulations are in order. I understand you have a bestseller across the city-­states. I hope you're pleased, even as your success retards decades of scientific effort.”

“Perhaps it needed to be held in check,” said Rivka. “Perhaps there are things more important than innovation.” She reached to stroke Emerald on her shoulder. The gremlin purred though her posture was rigid as she stared at Mr. Cody.

His gaze slid over her and the gremlin. “Miss Stout, I think you can consider any offer of future employment rescinded.”

“That's fine by me. I have higher standards. Grandmother?”

“I'm ready whenever you are, child!” Grandmother advanced down the hallway, practically shoving her way through Mr. Cody's surprised retinue.

“You're not staying for the bout?” Cody called.

Rivka stepped closer to him. They were of almost equal height, Mr. Cody's stomach like a rounded barricade between them. “
This
is the bout. The chimeras won.”

At that, Emerald blew a raspberry.

Rivka strode down the hall, her chin held high, gremlin purring contentment on her shoulder.

 

Final Flight

 

I
stood at the rudder wheel of my airship
Argus
, in command of a ship I did not truly control. We flew north, destination unknown. A soldier stood several feet behind me. His pistols remained holstered—­he wasn't daft enough or desperate enough to fire a weapon in the control cabin of an operating airship—­but he had already proven adept with his fists. My co-­pilot, Ramsay, was currently getting patched up, as the sarcastic commentary he had offered was not kindly received.

Throughout the cabin, tension prickled beneath the surface like an invisible rash we couldn't scratch. Everyone stood or sat rigid at their posts, gazes flickering between their gauges, the windows, and the soldiers in our midst. These were soldiers of our own kingdom of Caskentia, in green uniforms as vibrant as the sprawling valley below. They had occupied the
Argus
since that morning.

This was the second time in as many weeks that my airship had been commandeered. The previous time, rebellious settlers from the Waste had claimed it by force. I rather preferred them. Wasters made for an easy enemy after fifty years of intermittent warfare. This occupation by our own government was ugly in a different way.

My fists gripped the wheel as if I could leave impressions in the slick copper. The futility of our situation infuriated me. I couldn't stop the Wasters before. And now I couldn't stop
this
, whatever this mysterious errand was.

My son, Sheridan, was on board somewhere. I needed him to be safe, not snared in any more political drama. The Wasters had used him as a hostage to force my hand; I didn't want these soldiers to do the same.

“Captain Hue, sir.” My co-­pilot saluted as he entered the control cabin. I assessed him in a glance. Bandages plugged his swollen nose. Blood still thickened his thin brown moustache.

“You are well enough to resume your duties?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. I've felt worse after a night of leave.”

Ramsay knew his job; if only he could control his fool lips. I stepped back to grant him control of the rudder and leaned by his ear. “Corrado said this would be over in days. Bear through.”

I saw my own frustration mirrored in his eyes, and in the other crew as I walked from station to station. I muttered what assurance I could and exited the control cabin. I needed to find my boy.

I limped down the hallway, my stiff knees like smoldering coals of pain. An engineer fresh from the outdoor engine car saluted as she passed by. The stench of enchanted aether-­helium clung to her like a cloud and made me woozy for all of a breath.

I started upstairs. Agony compounded with every step. I gritted my teeth. I glanced up at the sound of distinctly heavy boots coming downstairs. Another Caskentian soldier in a green greatcoat and jodhpurs marched toward me. Behind him came Julius Corrado, a man who was no gentleman and deserved no respectful designation.

I'd known Corrado years ago as a smarmy airship port warden, the kind who demanded extra bribes and acted like he'd done me a grand favor. He had aged as well as an apple left out in summer sun—­his face and jowls wrinkled and lumpy—­though the fine threads of his dapper pinstriped suit would have made him presentable to Queen Evandia herself.

This morning he'd flashed a Clockwork Dagger's pin as he requisitioned my ship in the Queen's very name. An urgent mission, he said. My
Argus
was perfect, he said.

Perfect because we were almost fully staffed and in better condition than most of the ships currently on moorage. I took pride in my old gal. We had spent the past few days replacing blood-­soaked carpet and repairing other damage from the Waster skirmish so that we could resume our usual passenger route.

Corrado gave me one of his insipid smiles. “Off duty, Cuthbert?”

My fists balled at my sides. As a younger man, fancying myself a pugilist, I might have been fool enough to take the punch, but I now had to think of my Sheridan, and two dozen crew besides.

“Off duty as much as a captain ever is.”

“I'm on the way to join my man in the control cabin, just to keep an eye on things. Have you seen Mrs. Starling about?”

“No.” Damned if I cared. I needed to find my lad. He was most likely in the promenade, and failing that, up in the gas bag access where he liked to read.

“I'm sure she'll turn up soon. She's always up to something.” With a tip of his black trilby, he continued downstairs. I grimaced as I headed upward. The Wasters had pummeled me when I resisted their takeover of the
Argus
; my legs had taken the worst of it. Now I moved like an old man. I
felt
like an old man for the first time, despite years of white hair and wrinkles.

Most of the lights in the promenade were shut off, though sun shone through the long row of port-­side windows. The view beyond showed the greenery of Caskentia. Set dining tables wore white tablecloths as if to masquerade as squat ghosts.

I heard Sheridan's voice, still high as a girl's, and stopped in the doorway.

“Yes, m'lady, I've officially been yeoman electrician on board for years, but I work where I'm needed.”

“Well, you've done a fine job on this automaton band. These figures are far older than you, but they're in fine condition.”

It took me a moment to find the speaker, as Mrs. Starling wore a black mourning gown from nape to ankle and stood in a shadow between windows. In that attire, she'd blend in anywhere in Caskentia. Widows and mourning mothers were legion.

“Thank you, m'lady,” said Sheridan.

“Are you reading these books now?” I heard the flutter of pages. My sense of alarm blared like klaxons. I knew nothing about this woman but her name and that she traveled with Corrado. I assumed no innocence on her part.

“I've read them before, m'lady. They're favorites of mine.” My Sheridan, never without books. When he first came aboard at age nine, I berated him for reading on duty. I did not hold with nepotism.

“It's rare to find a boy your age who can read, much less one who favors Dhalgren's poetry or histories of Caskentia.”

“I credit my mother, m'lady. She was fond of books.”

“Such a tragedy to lose your mother at such a tender age. You were what, nine, when she succumbed to pox?”

He hesitated, and my own breath caught in surprise. How had she known that? My crew wouldn't have gossiped about such an intimate detail.

“Yes, m'lady,” Sheridan said slowly.

Just weeks before, I read in the paper of Caskentia burning whole villages to contain the spread of pox. Ill and healthy, immolated together. It was a firebreak strategy, a damn fool one. By Caskentia's “death village” logic, Sheridan should be dead, too, even though he never contracted the dreadful illness from his mother.

Caskentia. Logic. Those words shouldn't be used in the same sentence.

It'd shock my crew if I said such things aloud. I displayed absolute loyalty to Caskentia, but I was no fool. I did whatever was necessary to manage my business—­my ship—­and take care of Sheridan. I paid bribes to officials at every moorage. I simpered and groveled, and in the privacy of my berth, washed away the foul taint with a tawny port.

Maybe that's why this requisition of my gal
Argus
was especially aggravating. All my posturing had been for nothing.

“Mothers are often our best teachers, though your father's role in recent years is not to be ignored. You've raised an intelligent son, Captain Hue.” She still faced away from me. Had I been so loud in my approach?

Sheridan scrambled to his feet and saluted me. “Sir!” He wore a crimson crew uniform over his lanky form. A scab still stood bold across his neck. I refused to let my mind linger on the memory of a Waster holding a blade to my boy's throat.

I acknowledged Mrs. Starling with a curt nod, which she returned. She had to be near my own age, her hair threaded in silver.

“He's a bright boy and an asset to my crew,” I said. I stood the same distance from her as I would from a snake. “Corrado wondered about your whereabouts, Mrs. Starling.”

Her tight smile acknowledged my lack of subtlety in getting rid of her. “I suppose he needs my help, as usual. I should get down to the control cabin. Captain.” She swept by me. I waited until the doors swung shut before I turned to Sheridan. He straightened his books then hurriedly stooped to reassemble the bellows mechanism for the trumpet automaton.

“How long had she been here?”

“A few minutes, sir. She surprised me.” He didn't look impressed by that; he looked unnerved. Good. He needed that fear.

“I don't know who that woman is. I don't know
what
she is, but she's with Corrado. You know what happened the last time we had Clockwork Daggers aboard.”

Sheridan nodded. The Queen's spies were either covert heroes of the realm or chief arbiters of Caskentian corruption, depending on who was doing the talking. My opinion was not favorable in light of recent events. The Wasters' takeover of the
Argus
had been complicated by an on-­board rivalry between Clockwork Daggers as they argued over the fate of a meddlesome medician, one Octavia Leander.

All of which resulted in that damned Waster holding a blade to Sheridan's throat as they commandeered my ship.

“Did Mrs. Starling hint at our destination?”

“No, sir. By the way, they had us load two large wardrobe boxes when they came aboard, but their personal bags were quite light. A soldier stays near their berths, too.”

Good lad. I offered an approving nod. Queen Evandia had her Daggers as spies; I had my Sheridan. “You had best get that automaton together. You're on shift soon,
Mr. Hue
.”

“Aye,
Captain Hue
.” He had never called me “father” or any such synonym. He'd been a chubby toddler screaming, “Captain! Captain!” after me when I would leave him and his mother at the dock.

My gaze traced that nick on his throat as I turned away.

I stopped in the hallway at the juncture of the downward stairs and the corridors to berthing. A large cage against the wall abounded with the twitters and metallic clicks of dozens of mechanical birds; they were another of Sheridan's projects, and a source of great joy for our commercial passengers.

Away from prying eyes, I allowed my body to sag as I leaned on the wall.

“We'll be back on our boring route soon, old gal,” I murmured to the
Argus
, giving the panels a pat.

Up until the Waster attack, I thought the
Argus
was the safest place for Sheridan. Now? I didn't know. The fight between Caskentia and the Waste had continued in fits and starts for decades—­recent events on the
Argus
were proof of that—­and certainly the full war would resume by spring.

Another year, and Sheridan would be of age for army conscription; I'd already saved up funds for the hefty bribes to keep him off the rosters.

And now Mrs. Starling inquired after him. I dared not assume she made pleasant maternal chitchat to pass the time. No.

Gravity helped my stiff legs down the stairs and toward the control cabin. I didn't know how to do it, but I needed Corrado, Starling, and their ilk off of my
Argus
as soon as possible.

No good could come of having a Clockwork Dagger aboard my ship.

T
he night passed, then another day. We continued along the same heading north through Caskentia. Marshes and farmland patched the valley below, the ocean out of sight to the west. At starboard, the high wall of the Pinnacles grew bolder and bleaker with snow. Beyond that fearsome natural border sprawled the desolate plains of the Waste. Hell, if ever there was one.

The next morning, with me at the rudder, Corrado directed us toward a specific location. We were on the far eastern edge of the North Country, a stretch of rolling plains and isolated farms. Not a place to expect a mooring mast, but by God, there was one. It stood like a steel lighthouse. At its feet lay a black slate of rubble freckled with soldiers in Caskentian green.

I stared down through the wide cabin windows. This looked like a pox-­ridden death village. The yonder green hills added a splash of color to what otherwise resembled the desolate black print photograph that had accompanied the newspaper story weeks before.

Soldiers assisted as we moored the
Argus
to the top of the mast.

Corrado motioned to me. “Your crew is to stay aboard with the exception of your three aether magi. They'll leave the ship now. Our soldiers are rounding them up.”

Jaws dropped across the cabin.

“The hell they are.” Spittle sprayed from my lips. “Do you know what you're doing? Aether magi are more accurate than any dial in monitoring our helium and aether mix, and if we're forced to go down, their ability to float obj—­”

“I'm well aware of what aether magi do, but they are disembarking nevertheless. If any of them attempt to hide on board, we'll know.” His voice brooked no argument. “You conducted thorough maintenance in the past week. Your airship can fly perfectly well without them.”

Leaving our aether magi behind was like heading for a mountain hike on a winter day without a good coat. The weather might look fine for now, sure, but it was a damned fool risk to take.

“We can't tarry. We need the magi away while we're still upwind,” murmured Mrs. Starling from where she stood in the navigation portion of the cabin.

Corrado nodded. “The magi will be driven to Vorana, where your ship can meet them once our errand is done.”

“How far will we need to fly without them?” I asked between clenched teeth. On the ground directly below the control cabin, soldiers escorted my three magi into the village.

“As far as needed,” snapped Corrado. A soldier stood wary at his side.