World-Ripper War (Mad Tinker Chronicles Book 3) (18 page)

Chapter 14

“The words on one man’s lips can put swords in a thousand hands.” -Illiardra

Rynn stared at the sheet of vellum. It wasn’t blank, but only held the faintest hints of what would eventually come to life within its creamy white confines. The pencil was a bar of steel, too heavy to move. Each time she tried, Rynn attempted to picture teaching a goblin how to read the schematic she was creating. It didn’t help that Rynn had only vague notions of what a goblin looked like, just a few bland adjectives from Anzik, who was not the most poetic of storytellers.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend … but what about the enemy of an insane acquaintance I betrayed? The rebellion will get by. It might take years, but we’ll get them enough weapons to fight back in earnest.
As much as she told herself that, the words felt hollow. She had been a slave so short a time, been forced to carry the stubborn collar on her neck a while longer. In all, it had been a few months of her life taken from her. And while she’d hated her job working for Mrs. Bas-Klickten at the university, she hadn’t been treated badly by most standards. For her to ask miners, farmhands, and brothel slaves to wait “just a few years” seemed callous.

For better or worse, Rynn had cast her lot with Anzik and his goblin labor force. They had only two small workshops, one aboard the
Jennai
, and one with Madlin and Cadmus on the moon. Even thinking about it made Rynn shake her head.
Not only have we settled the moon, we’ve industrialized it.
But even if they produced nothing but coil guns—and Madlin and Cadmus were doing nothing of the sort, far too busy with projects of their own—they could only produce ten or twelve a day. Supporting construction and expansion of the
Jennai
, servicing the small fleet of liftwings, and Rynn’s personal projects to improve her tinker’s legs, they weren’t even yielding half that number on a good day.

Rynn pushed aside the vellum and decided to go for a walk. She had never been fond of them, but once deprived of the ability to walk, she had learned a new appreciation for the simple pleasure of meandering around the ship under her own power. She greeted her rebels when she passed them in the corridors, but they seemed to sense the distance between her and where her thoughts were traveling.
I’m going to meet a god.
It was an unsettling thought. Anzik’s reassurances that it was “just” a dragon changed little. Rynn knew something of dragons from stories, but they had always been simple villains, either animalistic brutes to be slain by knights or riddling tricksters to be outwitted by peasant heroes. Anzik’s description made them seem more like … well, like gods. They ruled over the goblin people, taking tributes of gold and food, setting down laws and issuing decrees. In exchange, the goblins gained the creatures’ protection—absolute protection—against neighboring nations and races.

Anzik had told her of the one dragon he had in mind, had even told her its name, but it was just a blur of confused syllables in Rynn’s head—she hadn’t quite followed as he said it, and doubted repetition would have made it any clearer. She was to lay out her proposal: a force of science and technology capable of striking down their foes, in exchange for a three-quarter share of the proceeds—Anzik had been willing to take a mere quarter out of Madlin’s share for acting as a broker.
Why would it take such a deal?
It seemed unfair, or it would from behind Rynn’s spectacles if their positions were reversed. She would have to trust Anzik’s knowledge of the creatures since no storybook she had ever read talked about how to conduct trade negotiations with dragons.

Rynn’s wanderings went undirected, at least by her conscious mind. Her subconscious seemed to have had a plan though and didn’t inform her of it until she stumbled into the common room of the crew deck where her former gang-mates were relaxing. Kupe was with them, having been remanded to Rascal’s custody.

“How’s it, Rynn?” Buckets asked.

Rynn smirked. “You picking up Cuminol slang, now? Don’t let this yokel ruin you.”

“Grab a chair. Have a pint,” Hayfield offered, gesturing to a keg of pilfered Telluraki ale. The labeling on the side was in Acardian, at which point Rynn stopped paying attention. Madlin’s taste buds could handle Acardian brews, but it felt too bitter for Rynn.

“I came to see how Kupe was doing,” said Rynn. It sounded better than admitting she happened by absentmindedly. “So how
is
Kupe doing?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “Rascal’s been newsing me on this oversized gang of yours.” Kupe looked around the room. “Pretty packed car you’re hauling.” He lifted his mug in Rascal’s direction. “It ain’t as blush-faced drinking with a Pious when you ain’t been going to his sermons all your life.”

Rascal chuckled as he finished a swig of ale. “His Pious Davlin is an old badger. Never met him, but I heard enough over the soft wire. Miracle of Eziel that he ever managed to preach the patient litany. He was a crashballer and a bare-knuckle fighter when he was younger. Served in the Garn Gel militia when they had that scuffle with the Orru Republic. Preaching was supposed to have been his penance for all that.” Rascal shook his head as he looked up to the ceiling. “If only they knew.”

“Is them legs of yours gettin’ quiet-like, or am I just getting’ used to ‘em?” Pick asked. He sat in the corner with his feet up on the keg.

Rynn felt a sudden flush without knowing why. “I … well, I do keep them oiled, and I’ve made a few adjustments.”

“I seen you with your runey-guns and your goggles and your gizmos,” said Pick, tallying on his fingers as he listed each item “But I still can’t stuff it into my head that you ain’t all girl under them trousers.”

Hayfield slapped Pick in the shoulder with a backhand. “Kinda way is that to talk?”

Rynn crossed her arms. “You’re sweet, Hayfield, but I’m no wicker dolly. Pick can imagine whatever he wants up under my trousers cuz that’s the only way he’s ever gonna see.”

They all shared a laugh at Pick’s expense though Rynn noticed that Kupe seemed to be forcing it.

“Hey, you seen the papers today?” Buckets asked when the mirth faded.

“Which one?” Rynn asked. “I’ve seen a bunch.”

Rascal reached over and grabbed a folded newspaper and tossed it to Rynn. “Glenwood Gazetteer, evening edition. Look at that silly mug they’ve got front and center.”

Rynn unfolded the paper and flipped it around right-side up. “Kupe, you’re famous.” The image of Kupe from the
Cuminol Chronicle
had been reproduced larger, and the rest of the flashpop had been cut away. The headline read: “Rebels Growing Brash, Lead Daytime Heist.” News of the rebellion was spreading across Korr.

Kupe smiled weakly. “Yeah … just like you said. Dunno why they had Charsi snagging flashpops, but she got me good.”

“You boys been getting his boiler stoked?” Rynn asked.

“They been fillin’ his head with stories older than me,” said Buckets. “I told him about our smash’n’run with those old museum coins.”

“Don’t worry,” Rascal said. “We’ll make sure he can talk like a proper rebel.”

“You remembering all those stories?” Rynn asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Kupe, perking up with an earnest imitation of military discipline.

Rynn rubbed her chin and regarded Kupe with an appraising eye. “Let’s go find out.”

The image in the viewframe was dim. The mine tunnels on the far side were lit by a few lanterns not even connected to oil lines, just hanging from simple hooks pounded into the rock walls. Crowded along those walls were a collection of filthy, haggard, well-armed humans.

Kupe stared at them like they were a museum painting. “Where are the kuduks?” he asked.

“You really want to see?” Kaia asked. She had returned shortly after Anzik had disposed of Dan. The moon’s low gravity was too much for her to acclimate, and she had been more than willing to cut short her apprenticeship under the Mad Tinker.

“Dontcha think I oughta?” said Kupe. “If I’m gonna have to convince them I’m some big rebel hero, I can’t be lettin’ my face hang out when I see them kuduks they took.”

Behind Kupe’s back, Rynn nodded to Kaia. “Go ahead. You know where to look?”

“Yeah,” replied Kaia, “I scanned the whole mine after I read about ‘em in the Gazetteer. A hundred and eighteen humans—mostly miners—and eleven kuduk hostages.” Kaia slid the view through the mines, doing an excellent job of following the tunnels rather than plowing through solid rock. While both methods worked, Cadmus had always appreciated the skill required in mimicking a pedestrian’s viewpoint throughout such a short traverse. Apparently it was rubbing off on the operators he trained.

Past all the grim, soot-blacked faces of coal miners turned rebel, there was a short side tunnel. Rynn guessed that it was either a failed shaft or had been excavated for some other purpose than extracting coal because it only ran fifty feet before dead ending. There, in the gloom of a tunnel lit only by stray light from the intersection, sat a group of disheveled kuduks, all chained together. All wore quality garments, good, respectable kuduk-made cloth in unfashionable workman’s cuts. Faces and clothes all bore stains, though with little light it was hard to discern whether it was blood, soot, or a mix of both. Every kuduk was male and looked to be of working age, none young enough to be apprenticed, nor old enough to have retired. Their beards had been hacked off lopsidedly, by the look of it, with a knife.

Kupe took a step back. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Beer,” Rynn called over her shoulder. One of the soldiers by the door was ready with a mug in hand. She had talked with Rascal and knew that Kupe might need some liquid bravado.

“I ain’t thirsty,” Kupe objected, refusing to take the mug when the soldier offered it.

Rynn took it instead and forced it into his hands. “This isn’t about thirst. This is about getting your nerve up and making these miners see that they’re part of something bigger than one riot and a few hostages. You read that article?” Kupe nodded. “Well, once the knockers feel like they’ve got enough backup, they’re going to go in with bullet shields and scatterguns, and not a rusty one of these miners is going to survive.”

“But,” said Kupe. He looked down into the mug. “But we … but you could just make a hole where the knockers are at, blast ‘em all to bits and bolts? Or just make one right here, let ‘em all escape.”

“Escape where?” Rynn asked. “This is their home. Besides, do you see a lot of empty beds on the
Jennai
? We haven’t got room to save everyone. You have any idea how many humans there are in Korr? Even if you just counted the ones who’ve boiled over and are ready to fight back, I could build a dozen ships like this, and they’d overflow it. Once people see the rebellion heating up, more and more are going to get up the courage to join. We’re not trying to collect this fire; we need it to spread. So bottoms up, hero.”

It took the full mug and another two just like it before Kupe declared himself ready to “go rile up some diggers,” as he called the miners. Rynn had only known Kupe for a week, and had never gotten drunk with him. She had been playing on faith that the beer would loosen his tongue and steady his hands long enough to be inspirational. So long as he looked like his flashpop and could walk around shaking hands and slapping backs, that was all the rebellion needed. But while Kupe the Sober was a pleasant, shy young man, Kupe the Drunk liked attention. When the world-hole opened, he strode into the midst of the miners like a conquering hero come to accept drinks and kudos at his hometown tavern.

“How’s it, brothers?” he called loudly, projecting without shouting, but making sure all who saw him could hear him as well. There was a brief commotion, with many of the miners reaching for weapons at what appeared at a glance to be a raid. But picks and shovels aren’t weapons that a nervous man fires while retreating, and the miners didn’t have but three guns among them.

“What the bloody tunnels is this?” one of the miners asked. He brandished one of the few firearms the miners had acquired, a stubby revolver of the sort that skittish kuduk foremen keep stuffed in a pocket to prevent—well, to prevent what had just happened to them.

“Quench it, Lipp. Don’t you see who that is?” another miner said, pointing at Kupe. “That’s him. The flashpop. Rebel hero of the northerns.”

Yup, that’s him. The flashpop.
Rynn hid her smirk, but none of the miners were paying her much heed. Kupe was flooded with a slew of questions: if it was really him; if it weren’t really him, would he say; how were things up north; were they preaching the new Eziel yet? Kupe didn’t have much trouble catching the lobbed questions of a friendly audience.