World-Ripper War (Mad Tinker Chronicles Book 3) (21 page)

Madlin’s first impression was that of a Telluraki mine. The side of the mountain was slashed across with roads and lifts, loomed over by cranes, and dotted with arched entrances, supported with wooden beams. As she and K’k’rt drew closer, she saw that there was a single, far larger, entrance, right at the base of the mountain, large enough to sail one of her father’s steam ships through, had there been enough water to float one.

Leadership had accustomed Madlin to having eyes follow her wherever she went, but the trip through the goblin city made her feel like insects were crawling all around her feet. Strange, inhuman eyes watched her, staring up from navel height from every direction. The windows of multistory buildings grew pairs of curious eyes as well, taking in the strange sight of a human in their city.
I wonder if they’ve ever seen one of my kind in person before.
Jinzan Fehr had made his bargain with a different dragon, who ruled another city.

“Remember,” K’k’rt muttered to her in Korrish. “No deception. No lies. Fr’n’ta’gur is far too clever to fool, so be blunt and truthful. He—”

“He will sniff out any lies by the scents I give off, drive teeth like thunderail spikes through my guts, and swallow me before I’ve finished bleeding out,” Madlin finished for him. “I’ve envisioned my death a half a thousand times since I agreed to this plan. Now, clamp that valve of yours shut unless you’ve got something useful to tell me.”

K’k’rt just chuckled.

A gaggle of goblins in purple robes greeted them at the main entrance to the dragon’s lair. While she was still fuzzy on the details of goblin behavior, it was no trick to tell that they were angry with K’k’rt. The elderly goblin tinker laughed off their objections, chittering and clacking right back at them. After several minutes of this, K’k’rt had his way.

“Follow this one,” he said, pointing to one of the priests. “Her name is Nk’pt’n.”

“No way I’m remembering that,” Madlin muttered as she followed the priestess—and Madlin only had the tinker’s pronoun use to tell her the goblin was female—down the tunnel and into the mountain.

The tunnel was primitive in construction, with the stone chipped and chopped away, leaving scarred, ugly walls that would never pass the mason’s code, even in the poorest human layer of a deep.  The floor was worn smooth by untold goblin footsteps, with one exception. All along the way, there were great gashes in the stone, two to three paces long, and a few inches both deep and wide.
Claws! Eziel defend me, this thing did this with its claws—his claws.  Blast it, got to remember that.
The edges of the gashes were worn smooth as well, and there was no debris settled into them. For such a raw piece of stonework, the tunnel was immaculate.

Madlin’s guide led her down deeper into the mountain, through twists and forks, ignoring side passages altogether.
Our destination isn’t a side passage sort of place, I suppose
. Whatever lit them, Madlin could only assume was magic. There was no clear source for the somber light all down the tunnel, and it never grew brighter or dimmer.

At long last, the tunnel widened into a vast cavern. The stonework was better here but still primitive. It had the look of a natural cavern that had been expanded by the occupants. Here the magical light did fail, illuminating the entrance and not much beyond it. If Madlin’s estimate of the size was correct based on a guess at the shape, she was only seeing the nearest twenty percent or so.

“Fr’n’ta’gur!” the goblin priestess shouted. It was strange to hear from one of the tiny, chittering creatures, but the goblin’s voice reverberated through the chamber. The priestess bent in half at the waist, eyes to the floor, and scuttled backward out of the cavern.

Madlin waited.

In the silence left in the wake of the priestess’ departure, Madlin thought she could hear something, a rhythmic rush of air. She strained to tell what direction it was coming from; all she could tell was that it came from the darkened end of the chamber.
Breathing. I can hear the thing … the dragon’s breath. It must know I’m here. Should I say something? Should I wait?
K’k’rt had mentioned that patience was a draconic virtue, not a goblin one. If the goblins were lesser creatures to the dragon, could she set herself above them by displaying self-restraint? She waited longer.

Madlin had no polite means to tell how long she stood there. Reaching for the pocketclock she carried seemed like an inexcusable rudeness. But there was no sunlight, no wall clock, no routine of workers bustling about that she could use to at least estimate the time of day. It could have been half an hour; it might have been more than two. Finally, she could stand the wait no longer. Her feet were growing numb, and an ache was creeping up her back.

“Fr’n’ta’gur?” Madlin said loudly. It was not a shout, but merely an attempt to project her voice across the chamber. “I am Madlin Errol
,
representative of the humans of Korr, a world much like this one. I have come—”

A noise deeper than any Madlin had heard echoed through the cavern. It sounded like a slow chuckle. “And another one loses,” Fr’n’ta’gur said. The voice had a presence all its own. Madlin felt it thunder through her, though by the tone it was neither shouting, nor angry. “Still I find no mortal creature possessed of greater patience than Fr’n’ta’gur. You did better than I expected human, and you bring me a unique gift.”

Madlin had forgotten about the pack slung over her shoulder. Even magically lightened, the strap had spent so long digging into her skin that it was a relief to sling it to the floor. “I am glad you appreciate it. This is a token of my people’s appreciation.” Madlin popped the lid and turned the chest so that the contents faced the unseen dragon’s direction.

“A pittance,” said Fr’n’ta’gur. “Drag it to the edge and dump it in. No, I referred to a human who speaks only the daruu tongue. I find that fascinating.”

“Um, which way is the edge?” Madlin dared ask.

The cavern flared into light. A soft yellow radiance shone from above, bathing the cavern in golden shimmering. Madlin stood upon a precipice, several paces from a sharp drop into a sea of gold coins. Madlin had grown up wealthy, and Rynn as a pauper. Neither had ever considered the worth of money in detail until the rebellion. Madlin always had so much that prices and payments were just abstract numbers; Rynn, so little, that stealing was more practical. But when Madlin stared in gaping wonderment at the treasure the dragon lounged upon, she wondered if she could purchase all the world with it.
We’d ruin the economy. Gold would be worth less than coal for the same weight.

It was a testament to the power of seeing that much gold that it took several seconds before Madlin registered the presence of the dragon. The cavern was too large; it had to be playing tricks with her eyes. The great reptilian beast was longer nose to tail than the
Jennai
. It defied logic. It was impossible; a creature so massive should collapse under its own weight.

“I see you are suitably impressed, human with a daruu’s tongue,” said Fr’n’ta’gur. It waded through the sea of gold until its head crested the precipice, looming over Madlin. “Now tell me, what bargain do you wish to strike with me?”

At one point along the walk to the dragon’s lair, Madlin had wondered why they let her keep her coil gun. Seeing the beast up close, she understood. What could her weapon do against such a creature? She could stand upright in one of its nostrils, walk between its teeth.
How do these creatures not rule the world?

“Oh my, I think I may have broken this one’s little brain,” Fr’n’ta’gur remarked.

Madlin drew her coil gun, held it up, then set it on the ground in front of her. “I want more of these made. I understand your people are the best workers in Veydrus.” Her voice trembled, but she didn’t stumble over her words, at least.

“So, we are conducting simple commerce,” said Fr’n’ta’gur. It yawned, and Madlin covered her nose and mouth to ward off the carrion stench. “I had hoped for something more interesting from a human with a daruu tongue in her.”

“I want to conquer my world with them, and if you keep a quarter of the ones your goblins make for me, you can conquer yours.”

The corners of the dragon’s mouth curled up, and its lips parted. “Better. And for form’s sake, let us discuss why I should not devour you and let my clever worshipers dissect your little machine to find out how it works?”

“Because your world is a backwater,” Madlin said.
Bluntness, right K’k’rt?
She swallowed, feeling a bit dizzy. Whether it was from her gamble or from the lingering smell of the dragon’s latest meal, she couldn’t say. “My world runs on machines and science, and this is a top of the ladder piece. My world can barely make them, and I can’t make them fast enough for my army. Your world won’t know what to do about these. One goblin can pack as much punch as a cannon.”

Fr’n’ta’gur made a grumbling sound that could have been either a purr or a growl. “I like cannons. You have met K’k’rt, my cannon-maker?”

“He helped arrange my visit,” Madlin replied. “And cannons? Please. Cannons are unwieldy and slow. If you’ll allow me …” Madlin reached down and retrieved her coil gun.

“By all means,” Fr’n’ta’gur replied.

Madlin flipped down her goggles, took aim at the floor, and pulled the trigger. A shower of rock dust blew into the air as a crack echoed from the far reaches of the cavern. The sound was lost in the deep, guttural laughter that followed. “Oh, wonderful. Simply wonderful. You can show my tinkers how to make more of these?”

Madlin nodded. “Yes, and in return for that knowledge and training your workforce, you can keep one quarter of them.”

“The quarter share will be yours,” Fr’n’ta’gur corrected her. “And only because of my gracious nature.” The dragon bellowed in another tongue, and Madlin raised hands to cover her ears. Goblins poured into the room in purple robes, throwing themselves prone on the cavern floor in neat rows behind Madlin. The dragon gave them instruction in that same alien tongue, clicking at his worshipers like a municipal clock gone haywire. The goblins scattered as quickly as they arrived. “You will have thirty-five thousand workers at your disposal, Madlin Errol of Korr. You will be my guest until I am satisfied with your end of the bargain.”

Madlin looked up into the colossal eyes of the dragon, catching the reflection of the sea of gold below. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “Thank you, Fr’n’ta’gur.”

Chapter 16

“I can feel my grandfather when I touch the stone of this place. He touched it and left a part of himself.” –Kezudkan Graniteson

Kezudkan looked at himself in the mirror, a habit he had largely abandoned in his later years. It depressed him, more often than not. His face lacked the range of expression it once had as the muscles beneath grew harder and less pliable. Cracks and small crevices lined the skin around his eyes and mouth, and he was too proud to mortar them like an old woman. Still, he was dressed to compensate, in a red and gold brocade jacket, and a dark velvet vest over a starched white shirt beneath. He bought a new cane for the occasion, real oak with a solid gold handle and tip. In his vest, he carried a pocketclock of his own design, made over a century prior and still keeping time like a thunderail conductor.

The feel of the stone on my feet.
Neither shoe nor boot covered the old daruu’s feet. While he wanted to greet his distant kinfolk in his native garb, he was eager to embrace their local custom of unshod feet. With a final glance at the mirror and a grudging nod of approval, Kezudkan set out for his secret workshop.

It seemed as if workshops were becoming disposable commodities. He had the one in his Eversall Deep estate for more than a hundred and sixty years, but in the past six months, he had honestly lost count of the workshops he had set up, only to see them abandoned, destroyed, or overrun by kuduks. Draksgollow was insidious, overpopulating the workshops with his own hired help, stuffing them so full of bustling, bearded bodies that a daruu had neither the time nor space to think properly.

This one was different, he hoped. Tucked away in a remote corner of Tellurak, in mines that Erefan had abandoned, he had finally found the last place the human tinker’s allies would think to look.
Not one for looking back, that one. He’d mine a vein, and never bother sifting the ore from the rock, just moving on to the next vein.
He used to think Erefan was entirely predictable, but he had been wrong enough times to question his guesses now. Whoever had taken over Erefan’s little rebellion had yet to find him, but he had no doubt that there were standing orders to hunt him down.

Gederon was waiting for him when Kezudkan arrived, attentive at the controls of the world-ripper. His nephew was decked out for the occasion as well, on the assumption that the daruu of Veydrus might want to see the machine. The viewframe was dark.

“How are we today, my boy?” Kezudkan called out as he entered. His voice boomed through the workshop, reflecting his mood. Booming summed him up quite nicely, he felt.

“All set and dialed in, Uncle,” Gederon replied. “Just saving spark until you were ready.”

“Good lad, Geddie,” said Kezudkan, “always thinking. How do I look? Fit to see a king?”

“Never met a king, but you look like you’re ready to make a speech for an award.” Gederon tugged at the collar of his suit.

“Well, in theory, a king is more important than an awards committee. Though depending on the award, some of
them
might dispute that.” Kezudkan chuckled and Gederon mimicked him amiably.

“Where is the view parked?”

“I picked one of the long bridges to that middle part. It looked more important than the others.”

“Fine, fine,” said Kezudkan. “Open it up, and let’s have a look.”

Gederon’s hand hovered over the first of the switches, hesitating. “Are we going to end up living there?”

“Why would you say that?”

“It’s just … well, you’ve been different since you saw it. You’re acting fifty years younger, like you got a new girl or something. Maybe you like it there so much, you want to stay, and maybe you convince mother that I ought to go with you.”

“Hadn’t crossed my mind,” said Kezudkan. He looked into the dormant viewframe and pictured the daruu city instead of the web of copper wires strung across.
Would I be happier there?
It was impossible to know until he had met his kin. “Perhaps. I’ve always said you were cleverer that your parents. Might be that you know my mind better than I know it myself.”

“So, you haven’t talked to mother about this?”

“Your mother and I discussed an apprenticeship, nothing more. Now, if you please …” Kezudkan swept a hand toward the viewframe.

Gederon nodded and pulled the switches, until the view sprang to life. It was just as the boy had said. The view hovered above what appeared to be the main walkway into the palace. Kezudkan stood there admiring the view for some time, a tear welling in his eye.
So beautiful. So perfect.
It was the kind of palace he would want if he were king, the kind of city he would build around it.
Except marble. It would need more marble to be a proper palace.

“Want me to open it?” Gederon asked.
Impatience. Polite impatience, but just another sign that I’m getting old, and the world is filling with young daruu behind me.
Filling wasn’t the proper word, he knew, because Korr was anything but filled with daruu. Filled with kuduk, perhaps. Even filled with humans though they only counted because they could talk. Might as well say that the world was filled with cows, or fish, or clouds.

“No,” Kezudkan replied. “Not here. I don’t feel like answering my way past gate guards. If there is one constant I can expect between all worlds, it is that the dregs of any organization get stuck on guard duty, and will have to pass me though a chain of command a mile long before I can talk to anyone of importance. That is, of course, if they don’t kill me as a spy or a madman first. No, let’s snoop around the palace first; see if maybe we can find a likely candidate to introduce ourselves.”

“You’re going to introduce me, too?” Gederon asked, a hopeful rumbling in his tone.

Kezudkan furrowed his brow. “Figure of speech. You’re not apprenticed up enough to be greeting kings.”

“Sounds like a failure on your part. Shoddy education, I’ll tell mother …”

“Got your father’s wits, but your mother’s idiot tongue. I’d have to spend hours explaining to that sister of mine what a king is.”

Gederon put on his best school recitation voice. “A king is a hereditary ruler, chosen because one of his ancestors was good at both politics and killing people. Usually he convinces his subjects that winning the wars that got him the throne was a sign that some god or other sanctioned—”

“Top marks for history, now close the valve on it. I’m hoping this Veydran king is a reasonable sort, or this could be a very short trip. You know the signal for a quick escape hole as well as you know your kings?”

“You grab your cane by the middle, either hand,” Gederon replied.

“If I drop it and start to run, you can consider that a signal, too.”

“You running, Uncle? I’d be laughing too hard.”

“Nice to know I’m in safe hands,” Kezudkan said dryly.

“I could hop over and snag one of Draksgollow’s goons to watch the controls for you.”

“I think I may be giving you the wrong sort of apprenticeship,” said Kezudkan, smiling despite his best efforts not to encourage the lad.

The halls of the palace were rune-lit stone. Nothing hung on the walls or covered the floors. The stonework itself was decoration enough. Not a surface was flat or unadorned. Bas relief covered every inch of the walls; if they stopped for long enough, Kezudkan suspected they could learn much of the daruu history in Veydrus from the scenes depicted. The floors were textured mosaic tile, fitted tightly together from different types and colors of stone, then fused together by daruu magic.
Oh, how I’d have loved working on those when I was young enough to crawl about on my knees all day.

A few daruu roamed the palace, all bedecked in metallic finery that made Kezudkan suddenly self-conscious that the only gold in his coat was the thread.
My native dress
, he kept telling himself.
Got to be true to my people
. He tried to decipher the roles or duties of the palace staff, but it was all in vain. For all he knew, he could be looking at messengers or members of the royal family. No one in the structure gave any hint of subservience, performing menial labor, or giving orders.

There was an order to the palace, in layout if not among its inhabitants. At first, it seemed like a maze of corridors, with too few branches and irregular angles. But Kezudkan puzzled it out. “It’s a defensive layout. Stones know who’d attack this place, but if you look, it’s designed to divert foot traffic away from somewhere central. Quit trying to follow the corridors, and just find me the middle of the place.”

Gederon complied, plowing the view through walls as he went. “Got an idea where we’re headed?”

“It’s a palace. Whatever it is designed to protect seems to be at the center. It’s the one direction these corridors seem intent on preventing us from going. What would a palace be protecting?”

“A king?” Gederon asked.

“Precisely! It’s what I’d do if I was a king and living in a palace.”

“What’s living there got to do with it?” Gederon asked. “If you’re king, it’s your palace.”

“Yes, but if I had a residence somewhere and a formal throne in the palace for royal business, I wouldn’t make it so muddy hard to get there. I’d be spouting mad by the time I got to my throne each day, and I’d probably order too many executions and get myself overthrown.”

“Is that how kings worked? Execute too many people, and they throw you over?”

“Overthrow is the technical and polite term for a king’s subjects switching tracks on the whole execution business. They rid themselves of a despicable monarch, and someone else takes a crack at being king for a while.”

“What if he’s not despicable? Do the subjects ever make a mistake?” Gederon was full of questions. It was a hazard of youth, but Kezudkan’s mood was still intact, and he was feeling amenable.

“My boy, while I don’t doubt that there might be exceptions, there are good reasons we don’t have kings. Despicability was practically a requirement. Not that you couldn’t bargain with them, mind you. I think I’ve got plenty to offer if I say so myself.”

“This what you’re looking for?” Gederon asked.

Kezudkan turned his attention back to the viewframe. The scene within certainly looked the way one might imagine a daruu palace throne room. It was a perfectly domed room, the whole of the ceiling clad in gold and dotted with sapphires in what gave the impression of a night sky.
Curious choice in décor, certainly.
The center of the room sported a tiered dais, five steps high, leading to a single stone chair. Seated upon that stony throne sat a daruu far younger than Kezudkan’s imagination had led him to expect. Unless the daruu of Veydrus aged differently, the king before him could not have been much older than eighty. Nowhere in Korr would allow a daruu to hold high office younger than a hundred and twenty.
Another of the downsides to hereditary rule: hereditary timing.
You can tell a king when he can die, but you cannot prevent him dying before then, overthrow or no overthrow. The next in line is whatever age he happens to be at the time, ready or not.

The king was far from alone in his throne room. He was attended by two servants holding food-laden platters and a third with a pitcher to refill his goblet. All around the dais, daruu in finery gathered in small groups as other servants glided among them with trays of refreshments. There were nearly as many women among the group as men, more women than Kezudkan had seen gathered in one place, all bedecked in the finest precious metals. Silver seemed to be in fashion among the women, as were rubies. Kezudkan was a grandfather, and few of the daruu women of the court looked to be even a quarter of his age, but an age-old longing returned at the sight of them in their exotic dress.

“Uncle?” Gederon prodded.

Kezudkan glanced around the room. Workshop. He looked back to the viewframe, Throne room. The contrast was glaring, dissonant.
I can go there looking like a backwater peasant from another world, but I can’t show them this mess.
“No. Well … it is, but we’re not opening a hole yet.”

“Why not? Feet taken a mortar?”

Kezudkan waved away the notion. “Just look at this place, and tell me we won’t disgust the lot of those daruu in there.”

Gederon gave a quick glance around the room. “We won’t disgust those daruu in there.”

Kezudkan waggled his cane in his nephew’s direction. “Time for that smart tongue to be put away. We’ve got a coal pit to paint.”