The most prosperous human settlements in Westrim—the loosely defined “nation” that predictably occupied most of the western side of Rim—had been established on the broad tops of a chain of mountains. These mountains had given Rim its name, as they elevated the edge of the roughly circular continent around most of its circumference. Westrim occupied the lion’s share, laying claim to everything from the four o’clock to twelve o’clock portion of the continent, the remaining slice making up a nation called Circa. The city of Lock fell somewhere near seven o’clock. It clung to the top of a particularly sheer cliff, giving it direct—albeit precarious—access to the sea on one side. Similar access to the fug was available on the other, but it had been shut down by the fug folk for accumulated indiscretions.
Enforcers of such blockades have a tendency to look the other way when paid well to do so. Thus, in this forgotten crevasse or that, long systems of pulleys, ladders, and other unnerving modes of travel served as a means to deliver people and cargo down to the fug without drawing the attention of those up top or down below. The black market, like an infestation, found a way to hide in places most would believe would be unlivable.
At the base of the cliff, atop the accumulated detritus there, stood a small but sturdily built shack. It was the building equivalent of the sort of person who lurks at the edge of the light in a dim alley, skillfully walking the line between wishing to remain unnoticed and catching the attention of the proper people. Two stout men stood on either side of the door, arms crossed and eyes staring out into the blackness of the fug-shrouded night. The only light came from the mostly veiled moon. The men were, like most hired muscle beneath the fug, grunts. Long dark jackets contrasted with their pure-white skin and shaggy black beards. Their statue-like vigil only ended when two other figures approached. The watchmen, eyes adjusted to the darkness, stirred and drew revolvers from their belts.
“Gentlemen,” Alabaster’s shrill and overconfident voice called from the fug. “You would do well to replace your weapons. I am, most assuredly, a man your employer wishes to see.”
“No one sees Wash wifout our say so,” rumbled the first guard.
“And no one said so,” added the second.
Alabaster continued, unconcerned about the tightening grip the guards had on their weapons. His sole companion on this venture, Mr. Q, shifted a hand toward his jacket. Alabaster stopped him.
“I wouldn’t, Mr. Q. These dolts, even at a glance and a brief exchange, have established themselves as vastly inferior to even your limited intellect. Sudden threats of force have a tendency to startle cattle and wild animals,” Alabaster said. “As the shack behind you is far too small to be a warehouse of any meaningful value, and yet it is well guarded by two great slabs of meat, am I correct in assuming that your employer currently resides within?”
The guards remained silent.
“I shall interpret your unwillingness to answer as evidence of instructions to not confirm his presence, and thus his presence is confirmed. Please inform your employer that I come with a business proposition. I believe he will be quite interested in discussing it. I am frequently a profitable man to collaborate with, and I am a costly man to ignore.”
Again the words did not sway the guards, but they did penetrate the walls. Mr. Q and the guards exchanged leaden intimidating glares in silence, then each glanced to the door as a sequence of latches and locks clicked and it swung open. The person who stepped from inside wore heavy clothing from head to toe. Between the comparatively blinding phlo-light illuminating the doorway and his long, dark hooded jacket, he stood as little more than an eerie silhouette. The grim reaper may as well have answered the door. As eyes adjusted and he stepped out to investigate the ruckus, that silhouette became much more distinctive. A mask extended out from beneath the hood, curving out and down like a beak. Black lenses replaced the eyes, his face utterly concealed. His gender, or even his species, wasn’t clear by looking at him, but when he spoke, it was with a deep male voice and with what Alabaster would call a “lower-class” accent muffled by the plague-doctor mask.
“All right, all right. What’s all the noise?” he said.
“Are you the ringleader of this little circus?” Alabaster asked.
“I’m in charge, yeah. And if I was you, I’d look in a mirror before calling someone else a clown.”
“My ‘good’ man, you had best watch that tongue of yours. You are addressing…”
“I know, I know. Lucius P. Abalaster or whatever.”
“Alabaster,” he snapped. “And it is a relief to discover that you are familiar with me. It suggests you have a head on your shoulders.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know things. I know you were the first one in and the first one out of that new hole they dug to replace Skykeep. What’s the name… Quartzvault.”
“Yes. A formidable prison that, naturally, was incapable of containing my brilliance. And though my reputation precedes me, as you have no doubt striven to achieve, your own identity is a mystery beneath my notice.”
“Call me Dr. Wash. So you here for business or what, Abalaster?”
“Alabaster,” he corrected again. “And yes, I have business on my mind.”
“Well talk quick. You got…” He fished a watch out of his pocket. “Two minutes to make this worth my while.”
“I imagine you do a brisk trade in Calderan sea salt.”
“Heh, yeah. A lot passes through my hands. That all you’re after?”
“It is one of two things. How much do you have?”
“How much you need?”
“Quite a bit.”
“Well however much you need, I got. So long as you can pay what it’ll cost you.”
“And through what means did you acquire it?”
“Caldera, dummy.”
Alabaster crossed his arms. “Presumably there is an intermediary.”
“Yeah. And that’s for me to know and you to wonder about. You get other people’s repeat business when you don’t go repeating other people’s business. Simple as that. What else you after? Clock’s ticking.”
“If you are unwilling to answer my questions, then it suggests you won’t be able to supply the second commodity I am shopping for.”
Dr. Wash rolled his hand in a “get on with it” gesture. “Which is?”
“Information.”
“Oh, hey, if you’re willing to pay, then I got it. Costs more than a couple of bags of salt, though.”
“Have you had any dealings with the Wind Breaker crew?”
“Payment up front when it comes to info. I don’t take credit on stuff I can’t repossess if I don’t get paid. You want me to start coming up with a number for all of what you’re after, you’re gonna need to do two things: gimme a list of what you want; gimme that list before I get sick of talking to you, which is just about to happen.”
“I want free, complete access to all your records. Who you’ve sold to, who you’ve bought from. Their schedules. Everything.”
“You ain’t got the money for that. I know you were a big shot up north a couple of months ago, but word has it Ebonwhite seized most of what you had back when he locked you up. I don’t know what you did, but you must’ve had him seeing red.”
“My exploits, for now, are to remain the subject of the fearful nightmares of those who have roused my ire, but I assure you, what I have to offer in exchange for your cooperation on this matter should be more than enough to convince you.”
“Still waiting for a number, Abalaster.”
“I was more interested in barter.”
“What do you got to trade?”
Alabaster fetched a pocket watch of his own and consulted it.
“If you think that watch is enough, you ain’t thinking straight.”
“No, no. This watch is a family heirloom, just one of many pieces of my fortune that I was pleased to discover escaped the treacherous claws of Ebonwhite’s overeager collection men. What I offer you is your life and livelihood.”
Both guards stepped forward and closed ranks in front of their employer. He pushed them aside.
“Spread out, boys. Unless I got this guy figured wrong, he ain’t so dumb as to threaten my life with just one guy while I got two.”
“About that much you are correct. I am threatening your life by assuring you that failure to cooperate will leave me with no recourse but to destroy your operation. Your very presence here is in violation of both surface and fug law. It would be problematic if you were to be revealed to either. Or both.”
“You’re gonna threaten me? Who’re you gonna rat me out to? Ebonwhite? You rat me out, I rat you out. To him I’m small potatoes. You’re number one on his list, pal. If anything, you should be kickin’ in something extra to keep my mouth shut about you.”
“It is unfortunate that you aren’t wise enough to do things the easy way, but it is not unexpected. I shall simply have to destroy your organization in the more direct, physical way.”
A low hum, unheard until now, gradually grew louder. Alabaster snapped the watch shut and pocketed it.
“Mr. P is, at the very least, learning punctuality,” he said.
Alabaster’s airship pulled into view. Both guards spread out and raised their weapons toward it.
“You think you’re gonna have your boy in the sky gun us down? Airship guns ain’t what you’d call precise, pal. You’ll be dead same as us if he starts shooting. And even if not, my boys would get their shots off before we were through. That, I promise you.”
“He isn’t after you. Unless I signal him to abandon the plan, he will drag our ship’s anchor through that.” Alabaster pointed at the large pulley system a short distance away. “Rather difficult to remain in business if you haven’t got a means to transfer goods, eh, Dr. Wash?”
The ship continued toward them, lights flickering to life and targeting the pulleys.
“Do act quickly. He may not be much of a pilot, but Mr. P has illustrated himself to be superbly capable of destroying things with his anchor. It is something of a specialty for him.”
Dr. Wash’s guards acted. One of them pointed his pistol squarely at Mr. Q, and the other targeted Alabaster.
“What’s the signal?” Dr. Wash demanded.
Alabaster raised his hands in compliance of the pistol pointed at him. “In my inside right pocket you’ll find three flares.”
Despite his compromising position, he did not seem concerned. The guard dug the flares roughly from Alabaster’s pocket.
“I wouldn’t activate them, though,” Alabaster said. “The signal calls for one or more of the flares to be lit. Make the wrong choice and not only does the pulley network come down, but Mr. P opens fire indiscriminately.”
Dr. Wash hesitated. “Go ahead, pull down this elevator. You think I ain’t got more?”
“Inside left pocket,” Alabaster said, hands still raised.
The guard thrust his hand inside the pocket and revealed three twisted bits of metal. Not knowing what to do with them, the guard handed them off to Dr. Wash.
“What’re these?” he said.
“Retaining pins for pulleys on elevators six miles north of here, two miles north of here, and ten miles south of here respectively.”
Wash hesitated again. Though his mask hid his face, there was little doubt what sort of an expression he wore.
“I suppose those distances are eerily accurate? You didn’t think I would come here without doing my due diligence, did you? Contingencies upon contingencies, Dr. Wash. That is how you play the game at my level.”
“It’s a bluff. You just brought a couple of pins to spook me.”
“You are free to believe that. Just as you are free to operate as normal and risk destroying your own network. Or you can inspect your network and find which of the pulleys have been sabotaged. If I remember correctly, each network has between twenty-five and sixty pulleys, some hidden far enough within enclosures to require hands-on investigation. And who knows if I only sabotaged three? Still, no matter. You’ll just need to shut down your operation for a few months to repair things. I’m sure you haven’t got tight deadlines with individuals unlikely to take excuses.”
Dr. Wash glanced up. The ship was getting terribly close.
“Guns down. We’ll talk terms, Alabaster, but make with the flares.”
“The terms are full, unrestricted access to your records, and a small monthly stipend of Calderan sea salt. Say… two hundred pounds?”
“Two hundred pounds of salt a month!?”
“Against the alternative, a bargain.”
“… For how long?”
“Until I say otherwise.”
“… Fine.”
Alabaster straightened his coat and pulled two of the flares from the guard’s hand. A quick twist to the top of each sent streamers of green and teal skyward. The airship veered aside and slowed to a crawl.
“I do so enjoy doing business with a rational thinker.”
#
Lil stood atop a small stool, light blue fabric draping down across her body and all the way to the floor. In all her life, the young Cooper had never had a dress tailored specifically for her, and it was clear from her expression and constant fidgeting that she was not fond of the process. The only thing that made it tolerable was the fact that it was Lita and her mother doing the tailoring.
“Hey, how come Nita ain’t here?” Lil said, looking around.
“I believe she said she had to locate some hardware for your ship. Arms out, please,” Lita said.
“Oh, that’s right! We’re set to start fixin’ it up today. Say, you reckon you’ll be about done soon? Me and her are supposed to work on it together,” Lil said.
“A good costume takes time. Joshua has already imposed some stiff requirements in both how it should flow and when it must be finished,” Lita said. “But I believe I shall have it pinned together before much longer.”
“Good. I’d hate to have her be stuck fixin’ it herself, what with its bein’ broke as much my fault as anyone’s,” she said.
“If you hold still, it will go more quickly,” Lita said.
“Sure, sure,” Lil said. “Say, since when do you make dresses?”
“I don’t make dresses,” Lita said. “I make costumes.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Costumes are meant to enhance a performance.”
“Oh… And a dress wouldn’t do that?”
“No.”
“Good thing you’re in charge then. Me, I’d’ve thunk one was as good as the other.” She scratched her head, dislodging a few pins and nearly causing the incomplete dress to fall off. Lita hastily restored it. “Say, Mrs. Graus,” she went on, “I sure hope you’re feelin’ better after that medicine we brung you.”
“It took time, dear, but I feel quite myself again.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I hope to finish painting my first major sculpture in ages in just a few weeks,” she continued.
“A few weeks? Boy, most everything takes forever and a day, don’t it?” Lil said.
“A masterpiece is not finished until it is finished, and to rush it is to turn one’s back on inspiration.”
“Glad I ain’t had none of that.”
“What?”
“Inspiration. Seems distracting. I like a job that’s good and quick, so you can spend the night how you like. Seems to me Nita’s the same way.”
“Sometimes I think Nita and Grandfather Graus share a muse,” Lita said.
“Analita…” Mrs. Graus said sternly.
“That something she oughtn’t to say?” Lil said.
“Donovan’s father was… less personally prolific than most successful members of our society,” Mrs. Graus said.
“… Is there any other way to say that? A way that ain’t so genteel like? Seems like you glossed right over the bit that was supposed to explain what you were workin’ at.”
“I apologize. These are matters so fundamental to our culture that I sometimes forget they do not apply as thoroughly to yours. You see, we believe that true art is the product of creativity. Grant Graus made the fortune that paid for this estate by making clockwork contraptions. They were commissioned, and with rare exception he made precisely what was asked of him. They were works of unmistakable craftsmanship, but all the creativity came from the commissioner.”
“But these contraptions still had to work, right?”
“Naturally.”
“Seems to me he had to work all that out. And that’s plenty creative.”
“Perhaps, but not the creativity that properly honors the spark of the divine imbued in works of true art.”
“Sounds to me like you two ain’t got too high an opinion of this Grant Graus, and same goes for Nita.”
“No, no, no!” Lita interjected quickly. “She is family and we love her dearly. It is just that we know she’s capable of so much more, and we worry she’ll never achieve it.”
“You Calderan folk are free to feel the way you feel. I ain’t one to judge. But back where I come from if someone saved the lives of family and friends over and over again, that’d be a person worth bein’ plenty proud of.”
“And I agree with you, but she is a Calderan,” Lita said. “If she is happy, I am happy for her. But in our culture she simply won’t have the life she deserves if she doesn’t commit herself to something more traditionally revered.”
There wasn’t an ounce of animosity in her voice. Lil got the genuine impression that Lita’s feelings were out of concern for her sister’s own success and happiness. But all the same, the discussion was putting a bad taste in Lil’s mouth.
“If you were Calderan, you would understand,” Lita said gently.
“No offense, Lita, but I sure hope not.”
“Would you hand me the roll of saffron gauze, Mother?” Lita said, holding out her hand. “I must say, Lil. It is a pleasure to tailor to your form. You have remarkable shape. So lean, yet so strong.”
“Quite so. Like something from a Teffis painting,” Mrs. Graus said.
“That any good?”
“He was a profoundly influential artist from my youth. We, sadly, do not have any of his works, but I am quite certain if you go to the statuary gardens, you will find at least half a dozen figures very much like yourself.”
“I’d’ve thunk makin’ a statue of somebody’s the sort of thing you’d only do to a pretty lady.”
“You don’t think you’re pretty?” Lita said.
“I know I ain’t. I’m dishwater plain back home. If I wanted to turn a fella’s head, I’d have to slug ’im. Which I done plenty of times, mind you.”
“Here, Lil, you are an exotic beauty,” Lita said.
“Oh yeah?” she said, her face brightening.
“Indeed, and you’ll be even more so for your performance in this costume,” Lita said. “Turn and see for yourself.”
Lil shuffled in a circle on her stool to face a mirror behind her. The costume was a ruffled, delicate triumph of color and texture. Blues and yellows layered to produce something not unlike an inverted flower blossom. Her face lit up and, for a moment, she was speechless.
“Well don’t I look fancy!” she said once she found her voice. She glanced down. “Ain’t I gonna trip over the bottom, though?”
“We’ll take care of that on a dummy. I was mostly interested in matching it to your form and complexion. This is my first time working with someone fair skinned. Here, let’s get it off you so I can finish it.”
Lil did her best to wriggle out of the dress without disturbing any of Lita’s work. When she’d done so, leaving the deckhand in her underthings, she hurried off like a child eager to play with a new toy.
“There,” Mrs. Graus said. “Plenty of time for you to meet with Nita.”
“Yep. And I sure do thank you folk for all your hard work to help us out. You reckon it’ll do any good?”
“Showing that the people of Rim can devote themselves to the sorts of things we hold dear will go a long way to making those of my homeland more comfortable with you as a people.”
“If I’d’ve known that’s what it’d take, I’d’ve tried to get one of them singers from Keystone.”
“It is better this way. Every last one of our people could, if pressed, demonstrate some fine work of art. That someone who hasn’t dedicated herself to such a pursuit could do the same means far more.”
“If you say so. You’d know better than me.” She finished sliding on her boots and set about tying them. “Um… Mrs. Graus. I had a question. It might sound a little thick, even for me.”
“What is it?”
“See I… I know my brother’s sweet on Nita. And she’s always been nice and such, but it don’t seem like he’s… uh… I don’t know. Makin’ much headway. Now, if you ask me, I’d say he just ain’t her type. But I’m thinkin’ maybe you Calderans don’t show how you feel the same way we do.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Graus said with a knowing smile. “She mentioned he’d written her some poetry. I cannot speak for my daughter, regarding her feelings, but I can tell you that within our culture it is considered terribly rude to outright reject the affections of another.”
“Seems like the sort of thing that’d cause problems. How’s a lady supposed to tell a fella he’s barkin’ up the wrong tree?”
“It is a bit more nuanced than that. If someone is being rude, or gruff, or otherwise ungentlemanly, then it is quite natural to rebuff that person. What I’ve described is the way we respond to earnest showings of affection. Calderan men know that if their affections for a woman are not returned, then they should seek affection elsewhere.”
“That’s not gonna work for Coop. I love the big lug but anything less direct than a brick to the head is as like as not to slip right by him. If he asked if she was sweet on him, flat out like that, would she come clean?”
“A Calderan man would not be so forward. But I would imagine she would be honest.”
“I reckon that’s how it’s fixin’ to end, then.” Lil lingered a bit, straightening her shirt and pants in the mirror.
“You seem to still have a bit on your mind, dear,” Mrs. Graus said.
“It ain’t nothin’… but… aw, heck, I might as well ask it. This ain’t none of my business, and you can go right ahead and tell me such, but… you know them seats, the fancy ones where we sat and you folks told us all about your history?”
“The union chairs.”
“Yeah. Has Nita ever… I guess you’d’ve said, but has she got anybody who’d rightfully be sharin’ that chair with her?”
Mrs. Graus closed her eyes and thought for a moment. “I don’t believe so.”
“But you said them seats were for partners from the past, right? Cap’n Mack and his ex sat in one. She ain’t never had someone special?”
“As I’ve said, Nita has made something of herself that is certainly to be proud of, but hers aren’t the sort of achievements that would touch the heart of the average Calderan. Perhaps you understand why we might worry for her?”
“Yeah… Yeah, I reckon I understand why you might. But I don’t think you got a thing to worry about. Take it from me.”
#
Three hours after he had successfully “negotiated” access to Dr. Wash’s records, Alabaster was still poring through them. The “office” was hardly conducive to research. Most of it had been crammed with shelves haphazardly packed with contraband of various types. The only work surface was a small, booze-stained desk with a phlo-light above it. Nevertheless, Alabaster was making excellent progress toward his goal.
As much as he enjoyed flaunting his brilliance before an audience, this had always been his greatest skill. It brought a grin to his face. Few men could make the claim of being able to achieve his lofty levels of success through equal application of stirring speeches before adoring throngs and quiet study huddled in a dank shack at the fringe of the fug. Deeply analyzing information, even information as purposely sparse and obtuse as that kept by Dr. Wash, and making sense of the fragments of useful data buried within had permitted him to grow and maintain the fortune left to him by his father. It had allowed him to secure contacts within dozens of different groups beneath the fug, and to broker deals with workers who hadn’t anticipated him to have the necessary level of knowledge of their craft to set the perfect price for a task.
Alabaster was no stranger to the record-keeping of criminals. They used codes and vague language. The goal was to prevent any would-be investigators from determining with whom business had been done, let alone the nature of that business. Wash was better than most in that regard, but not nearly good enough to foil Alabaster. The data kept in the records was almost entirely devoted to tracking pending debts, but that was enough. Big pluses here, little minuses there, and all occurring at regular intervals were quite enough to define a trade schedule. Plugging the schedule together with other clues revealed the nature of the trade. Every third Wednesday he got a shipment of burn-slow from someone within the fug. On the first of each month he received payment for some cheap booze from a buyer in Lock. And once every two months he received a significant infusion of income from an assortment of goods that could only have arrived on the Wind Breaker.
“And thus we discover precisely when to find the Wind Breaker.” He scanned farther down the page. “And wonder of wonders, some additional goods of the same sort tend to come in a few days later, then a few days after that. Correcting for the travel time for that blasted ship of theirs and whatever traders make a return trip and I suspect I can work out their next few stops as well. At least with enough accuracy to find Wash’s counterparts in those places…”
A rapid, angry knock rattled the door.
“Hey, listen, you about done in there? I got business to conduct, and I need my office to do it,” Dr. Wash called from outside.
“Just one more drawer to process and you’ll have the helm of your pathetic enterprise back again,” Alabaster said.
He pivoted on the rickety office chair and inspected the filing cabinet. The bottom drawer simply bore the label “Burn Pile.” Alabaster tugged it open and grinned in satisfaction. The drawer was heaped with slips of paper, all of different shapes and sizes.
“May the heavens praise the shabby trash collection of my peers,” he murmured, digging his hands into the drawer and sifting through the pile.
The pages were different from any of the others he’d gone over. Each had been written by a different hand. Some had the elegant, almost calligraphic penmanship of someone with his own level of education and decorum. Others were barely legible chicken scratch. These were clearly orders or inquiries placed by prospective customers. None were so foolish as to apply their names to the requests, of course, so tracing them back to their origin would require more work than Alabaster cared to expend, but there was still some value in knowing the wants and needs of the local riffraff. After all, were he to dip his toes in the black market, it would be useful to know the demand he would have to supply.
Most of it was predictable. Sacks of Calderan salt, either given or requested in exchange for collections of scandalous photos or weapons or assorted intoxicants. The sort of things the lower classes used to numb their minds to the drudgery of their lives. Near the bottom of the pile, however, something caught his eye. It wasn’t the content of the note, but the handwriting.
“That’s Mallow’s handwriting…” Alabaster muttered.
He slid the page free and set it down. There was no date, but it had been heaped with enough other dated pages to suggest it had arrived firmly within the timeline of Mallow’s employ with Tusk.
The prior order was satisfactory. Please supply seventy additional gallons of “Honey Umber.” Additionally, regarding prior inquiry, the intended weave is most certainly satin. We shall require three dozen additional bolts. Tint to be determined.
Alabaster rolled his eyes. “Mallow, how many times have I told you not to repeat the same word ad infinitum in your writing? It is at least comforting to know you offer the same flawed service to your new employer as you did to me. But what fascinating requests you’ve made… What, pray tell, is Honey Umber…”
He scratched down the quantities, then swiftly checked for any further messages with familiar penmanship. There was only one.
We are still waiting for the fifty pounds of sea salt you were to provide.
“What is Tusk’s fascination with Calderan sea salt?” Alabaster said, taking note of that request as well.
Now satisfied he’d mined this place for all the information he was likely to find, he pocketed his notes, replaced Wash’s notes, and opened the door. His airship was anchored a short distance away, its weapons trained on Wash and his men.
“Dr. Wash, your cooperation has been most useful. And I particularly appreciate your procrastination regarding your direct orders.”
The masked “doctor,” who had been leaning with crossed arms against the wall of the shack, turned to one of his guards and slapped his arm.
“Ho! What’d I say? Every morning you burn what’s in the drawer. Every morning. What am I paying you for?”
“I have just a few more questions before I take my first payment of salt and go on my way. What precisely is Honey Umber?”
“Ah, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? If I interpret the note correctly it is not the first time you’ve fulfilled an order for it.”
“I’m a middleman. I don’t make the stuff, I find someone who does,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s something for decorating or something stupid like that. Pain to find. There’s just one guy. His town’s called… Limpetville.”
“I’m not familiar with the place.”
“Yeah, neither was I. Ain’t too far though. Don’t bother paying a visit. I had to threaten to have the guy’s knees broke just to get enough to fill that order. You ain’t getting another drop out of him.”
“Noted. The man’s name?”
“Robert Kayle. We done?”
“No. As you’ve proved yourself at least halfway intelligent, I present you with the opportunity to share any information you feel I might wish to know.”
“Look, deal in specifics or don’t deal at all.”
“Have there been any particularly notable shifts in the underworld?”
Dr. Wash grumbled. “A few of my courier ships got better offers recently. Heavy lifters. The price on black market burn-slow and phlogiston took a dive. The under-the-table repair crew I used to get to fix things up for the folks in Lock who could afford to send their gear down here has made itself scarce. And apparently finding good security is harder than I thought. That about cover it?”
“For now. Have your men load up the salt and you may resume your business.”
Alabaster turned to leave.
“What about the pins on the pulleys?”
He didn’t even bother to turn around. “Those were spare pins. Why should I waste the time to actually sabotage the pulleys.”
“You… oh you pile of dirt…” Dr. Wash fumed. He reached for a weapon, but eyed the heavy guns of the airship pointed in his direction. “You just wait, Abalaster! One of these days I’m gonna get my hands on you and I’m gonna hand you your own tongue.”
“Heavens above,” Alabaster said mockingly as he stood beside the door to his airship, supervising the delivery of the salt. “How ever shall I endure the vengeance of a petty small-time peddler of sundries, periphery, and ephemera? I, who am eagerly sought by the most potent figures above and below the fug, can only tremble at the thought of the terrible Dr. Wash and his army of two as they tirelessly scour the land. I’ve already been three steps ahead of you since the moment I learned your name. If you believe I don’t have dozens more cards up my sleeve, then I invite you to test me and see what becomes of your precious enterprise.”
Mr. Q took the last sack of salt from the guard and plopped it into place.
“Good-bye, Dr. Wash. It should serve as a salve for your visibly bruised ego that you were bested by the very keenest mind yet produced by the fug.” The others stepped into the airship and its turbines spun up. As it lifted into the air, Alabaster leaned out the door.
“Perhaps, while licking your wounds, you can take the time to learn my name properly. Lucius P. Alabaster!”
#
As the sun was setting, Lil and Nita labored away in the boiler room of the Wind Breaker. For the first time since they’d arrived, Nita was back in her leather-and-canvas work outfit. They’d been working since the early afternoon, and the end was only just in sight when it came to untying the knots the crew’s lackluster repair efforts had tied the boiler into.
“Honest,” Lil said, hauling one end of a pipe that needed replacing while Nita carried the other. “I didn’t realize how bad it’d got or I’d’ve been on this a week ago.”
“These things sneak up on you, Lil. That’s why you need to make a point of staying on top of them,” she said. “If this had failed and you weren’t near a port, it could have been disastrous.”
“Here I was thinkin’ I knew how hard you were workin’, and I didn’t know the half of it,” Lil said.
They dropped the pipe in the hall and picked up the replacement.
“You been talkin’ to your pa or the cap’n? I ain’t seen hide nor hair of either of them. They ain’t even been eatin’ with the rest of us.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Father’s work with the council takes most of his time. And he and the captain have a great deal to talk about.”
Lil gave her a playful shove. “We got loads to talk about too! You know your ma and sister were sizin’ me up for the fancy dress for that show you folks’ve got us puttin’ on, right? Well them and me got to talkin’, and I learned a bit about how you Calderans deal with suitors.”
“Oh did you now,” Nita said, placing a hand on her hip. “And just why did that interest you?”
“Well, Coop’s been courtin’ for who knows how long, and you ain’t gave ’im a yea or nay. Back home, when a girl or a guy don’t say no, it means maybe. Turns out here if a girl or a guy don’t say yes, it means no. But when a body means no and ain’t sayin’ it for a while, back home we call that stringin’ a body along, and it ain’t a nice thing to do.”
“Is that so? It hadn’t occurred to me…” she said.
“So first thing’s first. Are you sweet on him or not?”
“He’s very nice but…” She laughed nervously.
“Look at you. All this time I known you, ain’t one thing I figured’d tie up your tongue. Fine, I’ll say it for you. He’s not your fella. Now can you tell me why, or is it a Calderan thing to just leave folks wonderin’ things?”
“It isn’t him, precisely,” she began, preparing one end of the pipe to be installed. “I suppose I’ve just never thought about anyone in that way. I’ve never had to.”
“Never had to? Now you got me curious.”
“You’ve seen Lita.”
“Sure I have. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Lita is taller than I am. She has nice hair, most striking eyes. She is a dancer, a model. She makes costumes, as you’ve found. All I’ve ever done is tinker and work at the steamworks. She’s more attractive and more interesting than I in every way that counts. And she is my twin. All through school, at every festival, we were both there. And given the choice, who do you suppose got the attention?”
“That just means you grew up with a load of dopes who’re doin’ all their thinkin’ below the belt.”
Nita laughed. “Whatever the reason, I can’t say I ever missed it.”
“Never missed it. Now just one minute. I ain’t had much more luck than you when it comes to that sort of thing, and for my part, I can tell you it’s enough to make a girl feel like there’s somethin’ wrong with her. If it wasn’t for how busy the Wind Breaker keeps me, then havin’ you to talk to, I’d’ve probably flipped my lid by now.”
They began threading the pipe into place.
“It just never appealed to me that much. Lita and Joshua have each had good friendships turn into something more and then come to a sour end. I’d rather keep a friend. Romance seems like nothing but a complication.”
Lil nodded and worked at the pipe quietly for a few minutes.
“Can’t blame a body for feelin’ that way, I reckon,” she finally said. “But one thing’s clear. The folks who write songs and write books and paint pictures back home and here all seem to agree that love’s always somethin’ worth tryin’, even if it don’t end right. So keep your eyes open, and you be sure you’re sure next time you ain’t so sure.”
“… I’m afraid I didn’t quite understand that last bit.”
“I mean just because right now you’d call a maybe a no, doesn’t mean maybe the next maybe hadn’t ought to be a yes. Maybe you just ain’t had the right maybe yet.”
Nita untied the linguistic knot in her head. “I’ll try to be open-minded. You Coopers sure can turn an interesting phrase when you want to.”
“You and Coop ain’t the only ones with a silver tongue,” she said. “Now come on. This here pipe’s just about the last bit that needs fixin’, and I heard Butch’s got somethin’ special planned for supper tonight.”
#
At yet another of the seemingly endless sequence of temporary shacks that popped up and broke down in the uninhabited stretches of the fug, Mr. Q waited impatiently. Thanks to Mr. P’s arguably superior skill in flying a ship, Q was always the one sent to pick up merchandise and take deliveries that had to go directly to Alabaster. On one hand, it was nice to be away from the snobby loudmouth. On the other hand, a man could lose his mind sitting alone in a rickety shack set up on uneven ground in a dark field in the middle of nowhere. Particularly irritating was the fact that more than half the time the people he was waiting for didn’t even show up. This time he’d decided not to give them the benefit of the doubt. If they didn’t show up in the next hour or two, he’d climb into the little personal airship Alabaster had provided him with and head home.
He’d found ways to pass the time, his favorite being a discreet little stack of snapshots he’d picked up in a little shop in Fugtown, each showcasing a woman with little concern for fashion.
The hum of propellers drew his attention to the outside. He’d heard a fair number of ships go by, but this one was far too close to be merely passing by. He tucked his photos into his pocket and stepped outside. Sure enough it was the same high-speed ship he’d met at least twice before, on time for once. It was moving far too quickly, though, set to pass right by. He waved his hands to get their attention. The ship began to slow, drifting directly overhead, and he heard a distant clank from within.
For half a second, he registered dull confusion as something swung free from the ship’s belly. It was at the end of an anchor chain, but it looked more like a sack of wheat or something similar, a few layers of burlap bulging with something soft. His confusion turned to concern just a fraction of a second too late. The burlap-wrapped object struck him with enough force to make it clear that it was, in fact, merely the anchor with some additional mild padding. He saw stars and launched through the air.
He must have hit the ground at some point, but he didn’t remember it. What he remembered mostly was a dull throbbing through most of his body and fuzzy, blurry visions of the ship landing. The next clear thoughts he had were bleary anger as his eyes focused on Digger holding a rifle to his face.
“He’s coming around,” Digger called aside before addressing Mr. Q directly. “Congratulations on waking up. Though you lost me a half a sack of salt. I was betting a hit like that would kill you.”
Mr. Q attempted to retort but found his mouth wasn’t cooperating. Gunner appeared with a poorly folded map.
“How, may I ask, did you come upon the knowledge that wrapping an anchor with cannon wadding and striking someone with it would be less than lethal?” Digger asked.
“The answer involves the Coopers, a dare, and whiskey,” Gunner said.
“A scenario is forming in my head…” Digger said.
“The correct one, I suspect. No need to question this idiot. He’s something called ‘the manner’ marked on the map, suggesting he is as poor at spelling as subterfuge. I imagine that is where we will find Alabaster and finally get some proper answers. Give me the rifle.”
Mr. Q’s eyes widened as Gunner took the gun from Digger, but rather than execute the now useless hostage, he turned and fired at the nearby ship that would have ferried him back to the manor. The sound of rapidly escaping steam suggested the vehicle would not be terribly useful for that purpose anymore.
“You’ve got a long walk ahead of you and a bad headache in your future. Both are better than you deserve, but I’m feeling generous,” Gunner said. “Now let us get to the bottom of this, once and for all.”
“Agreed,” Digger said.
As they marched off toward their own ship, Digger took back the rifle.
“Am I correct in assuming it was Coop who received the blow from the padded anchor?” Digger asked. “That would explain a few things…”