Chapter 3-Part 3

“I suppose it wouldn’t,” he admitted as Dr. Everett finally strolled in.

The bespectacled bearded man in his white lab coat quickly took to prodding and pressing at certain spots all around the rude, dreadful bruise.  Gauging where it hurt the most proved difficult, as Frobert spat curses with every poke.  As he worked, the Doctor would give curious grunts and knowing hums.  Finally he stood up, nodded and went to a small locked cabinet against the wall.

“So, how did it happen?” he asked.

Frobert answered, “Well you see doc, when a man and a woman love eachother–“

“It was that damned ferry pilot,” Lorna interjected.  “Started pulling up the gangplank before he was all the way off.  Didn’t quite make that last step, did you?  Smacked his chest right on the pier.”

“Again with the pilot?  That’s a real problem.”

“We’ve got Marben on his way to give the bot a once-over as we speak.”

“Well, you’re lucky, my friend,” Everett said to Frobert.  He took a keyring out of his coat and went about unlocking the cabinet.  “You’ve got a severely bruised rib.  But it’s not broken.”

“I was inches away from prescribed bed rest.  How exactly am I lucky?”

“Ha!  I like him, princess.  Is he staying?”

“For the moment,” she said.

Everett grunted his approval and opened the cabinet.  He pulled out a small beaker of glowing green liquid.  It brightened the examination room and set a dim emerald hue on everyone’s faces.

“Down the hatch, my small friend,” Everett said, handing Frobert the bottle.  “Should be a fine dose for someone your size.  It’s not going to make the bruise go away, but you won’t be feeling it for the next several days.  Though, that’s no reason to be reckless, ok?”

Frobert pulled the stopper and waved the beaker under his nose.  “Panacide…with a hint of apple…and that nice piss undertone.  Well, I’m alive to drink it, that’s a plus.”  He downed the whole vial and handed it back to the doctor.

“Alright, if that’s all,” Everett said, “princess, a word?”  He stepped out into the hall with Lorna just behind him.

“News?” she asked quietly.

“Nothing worth much of your time, my lady.  Your niece finally lost that tooth.  Willam’s eyes are getting worse.  David, always the lady-killer, has that awful rash down there again.  And your brother is suffering from headaches and fitful dreams.”

She’d been having various members of the Keep’s staff keep tabs on the rest of the Family since her father’s death.  It wasn’t so much out of suspicion but more out of need to see as much of the whole picture at all times as was possible.  She had no doubt others in the Family were doing the same; in a strange way that actually comforted her even more.  “Thank you Doctor.  For everything,” she said.

He smiled and gently patted her shoulder as he walked off down the hall towards his office.  She ducked back inside to see Frobert slipping his vest back on.

“Right then,” she said, rubbing her hands together.  “I trust you’re feeling better?”

“Aside from the aftertaste, yes.  If I find myself spewing glowing vomit later, you’ll be hearing from me.”

“Then it’s time.  RG, send for them.  Tell them to meet us in the briefing room immediately.”

“Yes, princess.”

They departed the infirmary quickly; RG headed for the emergency lift booth situated near the exit while Frobert and Lorna made their way back up the winding stairs.  The small man had no shortage of complaints, but displayed little evidence of pain as they climbed back past the airdock and into the Great Hall.

“This room hasn’t changed much.  Still stinks of anger,” his voice echoed as they crossed the marble floor.  Lorna glanced at him over her shoulder but said nothing.

Several halls and another small flight of stairs brought them to a set of opulent oak doors.  She opened one and waved Frobert in before her.  Within was a room built solely for discussion.  Plain, unadorned stone walls; a simple, inexpensive chandelier hung low over a large round table of polished birch wood.  Several lanterns were mounted around the room and a thriving plant stood hearty in a large pot off in one corner.

Lorna knew the room well.  During the Freehold Conflict the Royal Guard and certain members of the SFID would meet here to discuss matters of Keep security.  Family meetings were a regular occurrence around the simple table.  Some nights, when she couldn’t sleep, Lorna would order something from the kitchens and slip in quietly to find Janus furiously gulping down a bowl of fruit or a glass of wine.  This of course would lead to an entire night spent drinking and giggling over gossip and their childhood.  Inevitably one or both of them would begin to sob over the loss of mother and father and either stumble back to bed or pass out on the table.

Frobert found a seat and hauled himself into it.  “My lady…” he said quietly.  Lorna looked over to see him in the chair, his head just barely above the surface of the table.

“Oh, my apologies.  Of course.  Just…one moment.”  She ducked out of the room and re-emerged with a wooden crate lid.  She handed it to the small man who promptly placed it beneath him without a thank you or even a mumbled acknowledgement.  He was able to rest his arms on the tabletop, yet still had all the air of a child waiting for supper.

She took the chair directly opposite from him and nervously looked around the room.  She was about to set the pieces in motion that would either save the Kingdom or fail, costing the lives of not only the team of would-be heroes but countless citizens as well.  Corland was counting on her, and yet had no idea.  Her brother was counting on her, yet had as little confidence as she did.  Still, she knew if it came to a last stand, he would defend their home and their land down to his dying choke.  Her right hand began to tremble, and she set to running her fingers through her brown hair to hide it.

“You have no idea what you’re doing do you?”  Frobert said.  A half smile was on his face as he took off his top hat and set it on the table.

“What do you mean?”

“Look at you; you’re shaking like a leaf.  Why?”

“This is an important mission, Frobert.  It’s not ignorance, its anticipation.”

He laughed.  A mocking, almost forced laugh.  “Anticipation?” he chuckled.  “I’ve performed for packed houses princess.  I’ve peered through the curtain and seen the hungry eyes of hundreds.  Hundreds with wringing hands, restless children, and wonder so very evident on their faces.”  He leaned forward as best he could; lowering his voice, “I’ve stood in front of footlights, in the middle of bars, at the top of staircases in public squares…just to show those anxious people out there a simple bit,” he snapped his fingers, leaving a small flame floating in front of him, “of magic.  I know what anticipation is, my lady, and you are just plain scared.”  He blew out the tiny fire and shook his head.

“Frobert,” she said.  “I get it.  I do.  I know you look at me, and my brother and the rest of us and you think that we are all somehow responsible for the Vallshot…that we all killed your family.  I might just feel the same way if it were me sitting where you are.  But I do need your help.  We need your help.  Yes…I have no clue what I’m doing.  The story you just told me back there?  That was the first scrap of intelligence we’ve gotten on the matter since the warning flew in the window.  I have no idea where we’re going; I have no idea where to even begin.”  She rubbed one eye wearily.  “So…if you want to hate us after all is said and done I welcome it.  It’s more or less deserved.  But right now, we’ve got bigger to deal with and you know that.  Help me.  Don’t hate me.”

“Do you know where I was that day, princess?  I’m sure you’ve got a decent sized file on me but I doubt your people could dig that far back.”  Lorna raised her eyebrows, saying nothing.  He continued, “It was election day, of course.  Morvus would become Speaker after the dust settled.  Granted, it’s not a requirement that we attend the event, but every Gnome should do their best to go.  My wife lived in Ferrus during her youth, so she was lucky enough to witness one.  I attended one as a boy and another as a fanciful young man looking to throw some fire around the crowd and make a little coin.”

Lorna bore a look of exasperation, but nevertheless hung on every word.

“We thought it only fitting,” he said, “that our daughter see the process while she was still young.  There was no telling how old she’d be when another came along, you know?  We planned the trip for weeks.  Packed a couple of bags, checked and double checked the departure schedule.  The Vallshot was the best ship the Election Committee could afford to send to Corland.”  Frobert looked down at the shiny tabletop, staring beyond the wood and back in time.  “She had that old durasteel plating…outdated and hard to maintain.  Engines were damn near nonexistent…I probably could’ve blown the damn thing up with a hard sneeze, I can only imagine how easy it was for the Portus to…”  He slowly shook his head, whispering, “I should’ve been with them.”

“I’m so sorry, Frobert.  You don’t realize…I am sorry,” Lorna said meekly.

            His head whipped up; his eyes focused back on the present, and directly on her.  “I should’ve been with them.  But do you know where I was instead?  I was here.  I was at the Keep, in a crowd of nearly 3 dozen, trying to get an interview for the Master of Ceremonies position.”  Lorna vaguely remembered the bulletin.  Janus needed someone to keep the Family’s public image light, to make announcements, to entertain guests, diplomats and other important people; Users preferable.  “Mayla, she…we both agreed that it was just too good of a shot not to take, but that Elly shouldn’t miss out on the trip.  I kissed them both, apologized in good humor while I watched them board that rickety old boat, and came directly here to show your brother and the rest of the Family that I could do a decent job as your dancing, singing, shouting, fire juggling fool.”

            Lorna had no words.  Nothing to say that could’ve possibly salved Frobert’s wounds.  She could relate.  Some hurts simply had no cure.  He didn’t let up, “I didn’t get the job, obviously.  I also lost my wife, and my little girl.  I…should have been with them.  Should’ve…held them as tight as I could as the hull burst into pieces.  Should’ve told them I loved them before everything went black…but I was singing and dancing for you people.”

            Lorna felt sadness then; a sadness she hadn’t felt since the news of her father’s death rudely greeted her that cold winter morning just over two decades ago.  Frobert was right.  He was angry; he was full of spite and hate. 

And he was right.

Chapter 3-Part 2

She nodded as the ferry crossed over the bars of the portcullis, finally able to make out the small frame of the well-dressed Gnome leaning against the deck rail.

“He’s grasping his side,” she said.  “He’s hurt.”

“Shall I alert the medical staff?”

“No.  Let’s make sure it’s not a simple cramp.”

The ferry slowly drifted to a stop at the jetty, just as the clock nearby gave a loud chime.  The Cogbot pilot stepped out of the cabin and hit the button to extend the metal gangplank.  “Thank you f-f-f-for your patron-n-n-nage,” it stuttered.  “Now b-b-boarding for Corland City docks.”

Frobert descended the ramp, grimacing with every other step and clutching one side.  Lorna considered lending him an arm, but figured his stature would prove a difficulty.  His top hat sat askew on his head and his black hair messily blotted his forehead from underneath.  His grey bowtie dangled from his shirt collar, the skin of his neck was red and irritated.  He looked very much like a child bullied at school on graduation day.

“Oh don’t all make a move at once,” he said sarcastically.  “It’s just a broken rib.  Can’t you see I’m fine?”

“Gods be damned,” Lorna said.  She elbowed RG’s body with a clunk.  “Let’s get him to the infirmary.”

“Princess Lorna,” Frobert said, grimacing, “a pleasure to meet you.  As striking in person as any photograph or poster leads us all to believe.”  He took a step back from the approaching Cogbot, saying, “No…no, I’m fine, its ok,” then after several coughs and groans, “Ok.  Yep.  Give us a hand.”

She smiled as RG lifted the tiny man into his arms and carried him down to the jetty.  She barely suppressed a giggle at the hilarity of the scene; a bouquet of roses, a ring and a veil were the only things missing.  “You are too kind, Mr. Frobert.  Your reputation precedes you.”

“And RG, my shiny friend,” he said, throwing an arm around RG’s metal neck.  “Might I also say it’s good to see you again, and a hearty thank you for dragging me into this.  Today has been a monumental pleasure from the start.”

RG hissed and vented again, his guts clicking and grinding.  “I am estimating that your comment was laden with sarcasm.  That is funny.”  The gangplank retracted, the faithful Cogbot pilot ducked back into the cabin and the ferry departed in a cloud of steam.

            “Not at all.  I love being beaten, nearly killed and smashed against a brick wall.”

            With haste they departed the airdock for the winding stairs; Lorna’s head swam with questions and worry.  They descended several flights before exiting through an archway into the warm, well-lit medical wing.  Another archway to the left led into the infirmary; to the right, a similar path into the surgical units.  Torches lit the halls throughout, and more royal tapestries lined the walls.  There were fine oil paintings depicting serene beaches, dogs at play; men and women abed–smiling and on the mend, of course–as loved ones surrounded them.  A nurse in white behind a desk sprang to her feet as they entered, waving them down the left hallway and assuring them the Doctor would be on his way immediately.

            RG ducked into a small examination room at the end of the hall and placed his small burden on the flat, steel table at its center.

            “Thank you, RG,” Frobert said breathlessly.

            “So what the hell happened?” Lorna asked from the doorway.  “Beaten?  Nearly killed?  I-I-I don’t…should I summon the City Guard?  Who did this?”

            Frobert went about painfully easing off his vest.  His face scrunched in agony as he pulled off his bowtie.  He threw the latter aside and chuckled.

            Lorna was in no mood for jokes.  “What’s funny?  What exactly is funny about this?”  Her voice sounded near hysterics.  They were short on time and had yet to get the group fully assembled.  If ever there was a time for laughing this was not it.

            “It’s just…I had a notion that you were the source of all my problems today, princess.”  More laughter.  “On the ferry ride here…I had plenty of time to think about it.”

            “Why do you say that?”

            “Well, when I got tired of thinking about my dead wife and daughter, I started wondering who was calling the shots when it came to this plan.”  He started undoing the brass buttons on his shirt one by one.  “It wasn’t hard to figure out, really.  Experimental Cogbot; obviously Royal property,” he nodded at RG, “top secret directives, all this ‘need-to-know basis’ bullocks…Security and Foreign Intelligence was the logical answer.”  He gently pulled off one sleeve with his teeth clenched.  Lorna gasped when she saw the dark, ugly, purple bruise around the left side of his ribcage.  She felt panic begin to rise in her gut.  If her only User couldn’t pull off the focus he needed to harness his power…

            “Is it awesome?”  Frobert tried his best to look down at it.  “Impressive?  You should see the other guy.”

            Lorna was very used to seeing injuries, she’d even treated them on occasion in the field; this one was truly disturbing.  He looked too much like a child with his build.

            “WHAT HAPPENED?” she demanded.

            “Ugh…with the yelling,” he groaned.  “I’m getting there…today has been taxing, my lady.  Don’t be rude.”

            “Don’t be rude?  DON’T BE RUDE?” she stepped towards him.  “Who are you to talk to me like that?  I’m trying–“

            “Hey you asked me to come here and help you.  Or should I say, you sent your bloody pet,” he pointed to RG, “to ask me for help.  I so much as mention to a bartender that the Family needs my help against a madman and I’m slammed up against a brick wall, about to be–“

            “You did what!?  You told people about this!?  What kind of an idiot–“

            “I’m an entertainer by trade, princess!  Everyone in that room thought it was just some new story I was working on.  All of them except the two bastards what did this to me.”  He waved a hand over his scuffs and inuries.

            “That’s exactly why you should never go running your mouth about classified information in a damned bar!”

            “How was I supposed to know that two–“

            RG put a cold, copper hand over both of their mouths.  “I believe it is in our shared interests to discuss relevant information only,” he said calmly.  “The door is wide open and your voices carry.  Doctor Everett will be here any moment.  If we have anything to discuss here, let us embrace brevity and keep it short.”

            Frobert cleared his throat and stared hard at Lorna.  She felt the contempt in his otherwise soft, smooth, sad, child-like eyes.  She lowered her head, like a mother too ashamed to meet the tearful gaze of her son after a spanking.

            The silence was eventually broken by the low, rumbling hum of the Keep’s boiler vents opening up deep under their feet.  Lorna, for no particular reason, thought briefly of times spent on her balcony as a little girl; before the spying, before the blood, before the career deception, watching the great warm clouds of steam billow up from the pipes in the outer walls.  She’d see them during her study time, and again as she drifted off to sleep at night.  They brought with them comfort; at times spreading out over the city, to fade quietly and with a calm assurance that all was well…that all was collected, and not rushed.  Sometimes, as she lay nearly dreaming, she swore she heard her mother’s voice in the whispered hissss of the pipes, and she closed her eyes knowing that the people of Corland need fear no evil while the lingering spirit of their loving queen blanketed them in slow warmth.  Of course, that was before the world took hold of her, showed her the ugly side of everything, jaded her, and hardened her…before her father was murdered in his sleep.  After that…the steam only reminded her of power; power, and the ease at which it’s lost, or floats away and vanishes.

            “These two men,” Frobert said finally, “from the bar…they cornered me near the docks, in an alley.  I was taking a shortcut.”  He sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over the purple bruise.  “Told me they were working for someone called The General.”

            “General.  Lawrence.  Grissimo,” Lorna said, carefully pronouncing each word.

            Frobert’s brow creased in thought.  “Grissimo,” he mumbled.  “Grissimo?  The scholar?  Discharged for misuse of assets?  He was in the papers a few years back?”

            “The same,” Lorna said.  “And it’s been more like six years.  Though in truth the trouble started long before that.”

            “As I recall, he and Janus–“

            “His Majesty,” RG corrected.

            “…Right.  They were researching The Bolide together, yes?”

            Lorna sighed, “Yes.  Shards of it, anyway.  Commonplace study now, but quite a breakthrough 10 years ago.  My brother was always one with an aptitude for science.”

            “An aptitude?  The Kingdom went broke because of his endeavors.  The Gnomish boycotts were a result of his own carelessness.”

            “Yes, he was quite open handed with hiring new scholars and making risky investments in…unheard of experiments.  You’ll get no argument from me there.”

            “I should hope not.”

            Lorna cast her eyes down again.  She knew about his family; about the Vallshot.  She knew that if it had been her wearing the crown Frobert would’ve had justice on day one.

            “So he’s the one behind all of this?  Grissimo?” Frobert asked.

            Lorna peeked into the hallway.  The good Doctor was still nowhere to be seen.  She considered taking Frobert to the surgical unit.  It was unnecessary but he’d certainly get more prompt attention from Doctor Sohota.  “You’ll get all the answers at the briefing,” she said.  “What happened next?”

            He shook his head, saying, “It’s all become a bit of a blur, my lady.”

            “Did they mention anything about their plans?  Strategy?”

            “No.  No, nothing so revealing.  He–this blond fellow…he showed me a piece of copper.  Had a very strange sheen to it.  Wouldn’t melt, or freeze, or even float, no matter how hard I focused.”

            “Son of a bitch…” Lorna muttered.

            “You sound as if you know what I’m talking about.”

            She thumped a fist down on the metal countertop.  “He did it.  He actually did it.”

            “Did what?  Am I missing something here?”

            She took a deep, lingering breath.  “Have you ever heard of Infusion, Frobert?”

            His brow furled again in deep thought.

            “It’s ok, not many people have,” she peeked through the door again.  “We’ll discuss it at the briefing.”

            “I hope that you do.  You know secrets don’t make friends.  It would be nice to know exactly what I endured a thrashing for.”

            “Yes, the thrashing.  He showed you the alloy and then?”

            Frobert chuckled, shaking his head.  “Yeah.  After the alloy he told me that The General needed Users with experience to make any real use out of it.  I suppose you won’t explain that to me either?”

            “I’m guessing they asked you the join them next?”

            “Doesn’t take a career in the SFID to figure that out.”

            “And you refused.”

            His eyebrows rose.  “Did I?”

            “Be serious, man.  We need your help.”

            A playful grin spread slowly across his face.  “I do love hearing that.  Say it again.”

            RG hissssed and blew steam, saying, “Our chances of success without you would drop an estimated–“

            “Yes, yes 30 percent or whatever,” Frobert said.  “Of course I refused, look at me.  You think The General has all his new recruits beaten for giggles?”

            “41 percent,” said the Cogbot.

            Lorna patted RG’s shoulder.  “Frobert, I’m sorry this happened because of us.  Believe me, if we make it through this you’ll see–“

            “Oh don’t think for a second that I was nearly killed for you.  Any of you,” he said.  “As far as I’m concerned the Royalty has had this coming.  I came here for everyone else.  I came here for the people who won’t just lie down for the invasion, and even for the people who will.  For the people who would grab arms and fight so Janus–“

            “His Majesty,” RG corrected again.

            “Ok that’s going to have to stop.  I showed up, I’m going to call him whatever the hell I please.”

            “Alright, Frobert.  Alright,” Lorna placated.  None of his disdain for her and her Family was unexpected, of course, and she took it as a given, with no malice in return.  She’d certainly let worse roll right off of her in nearly 30 years of undercover activities.  “How exactly did you escape?  Did you at least find a Constable?”

            “I’m coming to it.  See, the arse who did all the talking, he left.  Told his friend, a big fellow… Dolovitch was his name…to make an end of me.  He would’ve done it too…until that beautiful boy in black showed up.  Constable Bellick.  Remember that name, RG.  He saved my life and he deserves a bloody medal.”

RG’s head swiveled to the side slightly before snapping back into place.  “Data noted.”

“This kid distracted the big guy long enough for me to break loose.  I jumped on his back, tried to burn his face off.  He slammed me into a brick wall,” he gestured to the bruise, “then went after the kid; damn near throttled the poor boy to death.  I found a broken pipe and beat the big fellow in the head until he fell over.”

“Gods…is he dead?” Lorna asked.

“Don’t know.  I told Bellick to go get his superior.  Before he left the other chatty bastard mentioned someone named Quentin.  Told Dolovitch to hurry it up because Quentin hated leaving late.”

“Griff is the Watch Commander in The Coppers,” she mused aloud.  “Good man.  Sharp.  I’m sure he has the situation in hand.”  She turned to RG, “After the briefing send for him.  I’d like to know what he discovers, if anything.”

“Of course, my lady,” said RG.

“Was that all?” she asked Frobert.

“Yes.  That was the way of it,” he said.  “If I were you I’d send the Royal Guard down there immediately.  Keep a sharp eye on the gates.  Start combing the docks with the daily manifest.”

“I’m certain Griff has already put Constables to task.  We’ll have them before long.    If they try to run for it the Riders will make it a short trip.”

Frobert shook his head.  “Princess…”

“What?  This briefing is a priority.  Our 30 days are coming to a close.  I trust the City Guard to do its job.”

“The blond.  He also mentioned…that he and Dolovitch were not The General’s only eyes and ears in the city.  I don’t think sitting back and simply waiting for the good word is going to end the way you’d like it.”

“And how would sending the Royal Guard end any differently?”  Admittedly, Lorna was more than a little excited.  Weeks without even a hint of where Grissimo might be doing business, and now a Gnome shows up with a solid lead and at least two names?  She was half tempted to make the trip to the docks herself, but no; it was time to assemble the team, to get the pieces in motion. 

Chapter 3-Part 1

In a plush, large room inside Steambound Keep–complete with barrel vaulted ceilings and a deep, shaggy red carpet–Lorna stood poring over a table cluttered with maps, charts and parchment.  Every scrap of paper contained something relevant to the coming invasion; intelligence debriefings, scouting reports, weekly border logistics, suspicious activity.  It was all a lot to process.  With less than a month before an army stood at Corland’s gates and no real leads as to where they’d be coming from or where they might be assembling their arms and forces, she was suffering many sleepless nights.  But, when you were the Director of His Majesty’s Security and Foreign Intelligence Division, the feeling of a good rest was something forgotten about very early on.

Ever since that damned pigeon flew into the Keep’s aerie nearly a month ago, things had slowly begun to slip into panic and madness within the Royal Family.  I implore you to relinquish the throne to me, my friend, the message read, and with it the great city of Corland.  If force is inevitably required to bring about the prosperity in my vision, then so be it. 

The wheels of progress…

Given the nature of what we know…

You know it’s true…

Join me and blah blah blah.  She’d been over it hundreds of times.  She had Court scholars analyze the paper, the pen strokes, the pigeon it flew in on; all to find just one clue as to where it might have been written.  All evidence led to nothing.  The paper was made of Inland Birch–found most commonly in and around Corland.  The writing was indicative of a middle aged male sitting calmly at a desk.  The bird was typical, and refused to fly back the way it came.  For all their bubbling beakers, steam spewing machinery and thick spectacles, they found nothing to give even an inch of progress.

Border outpost records were of little help either–the odd merchant here and there making the crossing, some trafficking illegal goods, some with exotic looking weaponry in stock; but nothing truly out of the ordinary.

If any officials in Ferrus just across the bay, or Tesper just over the Northern border knew anything, they were tight lipped about it.  Lorna had exhausted any favors she might have demanded with the badland Elves of the North, and the forest tribes to the East.  The Orcs, of course, took no side in the matter, but insisted they knew nothing about a gathering army anyway.  The frozen wastes of the Southern Freeholds might’ve been a safe assumption for a hidden base of operations, but the difficulty of exploration in that region was too costly to undertake on a simple hunch.  Time was dwindling, and so too were the options.

There was a sudden knocking at the big oak door.  “Come in,” she said crossly.  Some of the guardsmen were asking too many questions.  Questions about increased security; questions about the transfer of some of the younger Royalty–nieces, nephews and such–to secretive locations.  None outside of the Family knew what was coming, of course.  With the exception of the scholars and a select few of Janus’ personal Guard. 

Recently at a Family meeting, Lorna had deemed it unwise to keep the people of Corland in the dark about the situation; that the City Guard and the Air Corps should at least be given a heads up on strategy.  Janus had countered that his old friend General Grissimo could have eyes and ears everywhere, and that distrust was the better part of safety for the time being.  Uncle Mordechai agreed, along with Uncle Willam, who was himself a spy for the Kingdom for 37 years before age gradually took his sharp eyes.  She nearly argued the point; Aunt Isabelle voiced a meek agreement with her that the women and children needed consideration sooner rather than later.  Janus sighed heavily, bowed his head and voiced his concession; that he would make an announcement a week before Grissimo’s deadline if the situation had not been dealt with. 

As children, she and Janus had argued constantly; who owned what toy, or which was the biggest plate of food and subsequently who deserved it; how big the world was and who would rule it first.  The adults in the room would laugh, or scold, of course, in the end saying that was simply the way of things between twins.  The Royal scholars in charge of their education would wag their fingers, imploring their father to begin Lorna’s etiquette training, as befit a proper princess of Corland.  But he never did.  He would always take a good look at her, and say that she was meant for better than a dress and kind speech.  And, most importantly, that it wasn’t what her mother would’ve wanted.  The scholars knew better than to take it any further than that.

The irony?  When she came of age and started her Intelligence and Security training with Uncle Willam and Elpha Mozer–the Shadow, as the Air Corps liked to call her–she learned rather quickly that a dress and kind speech were two of the best things a woman looking for information could have.  Her father was of course reluctant to see his princess in such a line of work, but every night after she gushed about something new Elpha had taught her or hearing from Uncle Willam that she showed real promise in espionage, he would smile and tell her how proud he was.

Thirty years of stealth, spying, secrets, accolades, pride and blood led to the table she was standing over; as well as the room full of medals and mounted weapons she was standing in, and yet she couldn’t find one scrap of anything to find or stop Grissimo.

The heavy iron door creaked as the guard outside entered.  “My lady,” he said.  “It’s the King’s Cogbot.  He said to inform you that the Gnome has arrived.”

“Very well,” Lorna sighed, turning from the table and walking towards the door.  “If my brother asks tell him I am in the briefing room.”

“Yes, my lady,” he bowed his head as she exited.

Putting a team together had been Janus’ “brilliant” idea–his way of taking the offensive without actually telling anyone that there was a problem.  Lorna had scoffed at the thought, saying that her spies were more than capable of turning over every stone and slitting any throats they needed to in order to find Grissimo.  Janus heartily concurred, but noted that not one of her skilled underlings was a User.  Given the arsenal Grissimo was surely assembling–mechano-magical monstrosities, no doubt–the point was not lost on Lorna and she relented; on the condition that she be allowed to direct the operation.              Janus reluctantly agreed.

She walked down several bright, wide stone corridors draped with the Royal Seal and down a spiral staircase that opened onto the Great Hall.  Court was over for the day and the Family Table stood looking forlorn and empty upon the high dais.  Janus’ large high-backed chair dominated its center, a shaft of sunlight streamed through slits in the back from a glazed window behind to cast regal shapes on the grey marble floor.  Her boots clicked and clacked across the room and then descended another staircase.  Several flights down, she opened a door and stepped out into the throat of the airdock.  The enormous portcullis gaped wide like teeth and gave a superb view of the city below, bathed in the golden hue of a descending sun.

To her right, a jetty stood empty–normally reserved for the Royal barge, Cousin David had taken it on a brief holiday to the East; no doubt doing his best to smear the Family name with his shameless debauchery and blatant disregard for decency and the law.  Directly center was the ferry dock, complete with a clock showing departure and arrival times and a board showing any schedule changes or announcements.  And to the left a small cargo vessel drifted serenely, tethered to the only other jetty in the huge room.  Men were crawling all over her deck, offloading boxes and crates full of whatever the Keep needed at the moment while several clerks in Royal colors hurried amongst them with clipboards and ledger books.  The Chef had mentioned a shortage of garlic at court several days ago; Lorna hoped that the problem was now rectified.  The stone ceiling high above in the gloom shimmered with the flickering lights of hundreds of lanterns all around the walls.

Standing next to the gilded clock at the ferry dock was Janus’ shiny little pet.  He was built tall; his parts had all been cast using the Infusion technique that Janus and Grissimo had developed before his departure and subsequent betrayal.  Lorna didn’t know much about Cogbots, or neural mimicry…or whatever the hell the engineers had called it when they plugged that tiny circuit into his metal head; but she knew she was still amazed nearly each and every time she conversed with him.

“Unit Zero Zero,” she called as she approached.  “Thank you for bringing the arrival to my attention.  I guess you were right after all.”

The Cogbot’s head turned to her and a noisy hissss sounded from his boiler vent.  “Lucky guess, princess.”

“Cogbots don’t function on luck,” she said.  “You told me his body language and attitude, coupled with his troubled past and desperate need to feel vindicated all gave a clear sign that he would be on our doorstep within the evening.  And you were right.”

A tuft of steam casually wafted away from him.  They stood in silence, but for the sporadic clicks and hums from within his body as the ferry could be seen sailing closer to the open maw of the portcullis.  “And you’re sure he’s onboard?” Lorna asked.  She boasted perfect vision, but could make out no discernable figures on deck.

“I am certain.  He is leaning against the railing, and appears to be in pain whenever he shifts his weight.”  The Cogbot’s vision was designed to be telescopic, and came in handy for any manner of situation.

Lorna’s eyebrows rose.  “Is he injured?”

“I am unable to judge from this angle.”

“Let’s hope not.  For all our sakes.  He’s the only User on the roster.”  Corland kept a shaky record of Users within the city.  Shaky in that it was nearly impossible to enforce mandatory registration and because many of them had either died or left unannounced over the years.  There were several enlisted in the Air Corp; but, again, Janus wanted minimal involvement by the military.  Out of 175 registered in the city, only five were easily and quickly found by her people.  Out of that five, three were not of age, and one was far too old.

That left Frobert.

Time might have been devoted to finding more.  Perhaps some not registered, or just visiting.  But time was in short supply.

“He calls me RG,” the Cogbot said.

Lorna gave him a look of assessment, struck by the oddly random comment.  “It’s a fitting name.  Not one I would’ve chosen, but fitting.”

“Why was I never bonded with a name, princess?”

She shrugged.  “It never came up.  My brother had planned to build more of you.  He held off on recognition in hopes that he might have a full squad.  Would’ve made sense to give you all some kind of squad name, like ‘Copperhead 1’ or ‘Copperhead 2’.  We all just stuck with your assembly serial designation.”  She turned to him.  “Do you wish to be called RG?”

His innards clicked and hummed.  “What name would you have picked, princess?”

“Oh no you don’t,” she chuckled.  “If you think you’re capable of making this decision yourself, you should.”  Again, she was shocked by him.  Cogbot name recognition usually took a week of non-stop arduous programming by an engineer.  Whatever they put in his head must’ve had a soul welded to it.

He hissssed again, blowing steam, and said, “I do like RG.”

“Then your name is RG from now on.”

“Will His Grace agree?”

“That doesn’t matter.  You’re unique, RG.  You’re special.”  She patted his copper shoulder.  The smooth, lukewarm alloy made the hair on her neck prickle.  “You know, there’s something the living like to say to eachother: nobody but you can define who you are in here,” she pointed to his head.  She got the feeling that RG had just redefined what being alive actually entailed.

“A wise statement, my lady.”

“We generally say it to get our children to study harder and make our petty criminals rethink their lives.”

RG said nothing.  After several moments a loud whhiiiiirrrr came from his body.  “You made a joke,” he said finally.  “That was funny.”

Lorna smiled.  “Thank you.”

“You know, princess, there was one other factor in my assessment of Frobert that truly solidified my expectation.  I failed to mention it because opinions are irrelevant to conclusive data.”

Cogbots had opinions now?  Unbelievable.  “And what was that, RG?”

“He is a good man.”

Chapter 2-Part 4

“Give me that thing,” Quentin said, walking up to him with a hand out.  “You heard Kremlin when he loaded them up.  The General gave specific instructions to keep these completely hidden from sight.”

“They are.”  Dolovitch handed it over by the barrel.  The bullet chambers glowed with varied colors, from green to pale white and even bright orange.

“Not when you decide to play the hero and fire off a few rounds!”

“Man that see, now dead.  Cover blown, remember?  You worry much.”

“Just…just use the standard weapons next time, ok?”  Quentin holstered the gun that made natural order angry and headed back up to the helm.

Dolovitch went over to the gaping hole in the deck that the dragoness had made before her fall.  It wasn’t the biggest breach he’d ever seen; maybe a good 3 feet in diameter, with the deck splintered and cracked all around it.  The cargo hold below could be seen, full of barrels and various boxes draped with canvas.  “We fix this in Whingem.”

Quentin stood looking over the various buttons and gauges with concern on his face.  He pushed a lever and headed into the bridge cabin.  The wood paneling at aft and stern could be heard sliding shut over the turbine ports.  “We have the wind.  If it keeps, and the engine holds out we can be there in four hours.  If our man is still there he can most likely patch up the turbine exhaust as well.”  The 72 hour window he’d given still seemed like an impossibility, but certainly an extra 10 hours was better than 20.  He’d still lose sleep over the whole situation, but after the events of the past hour…he knew he’d be too exhausted to fret for long.

“You’re welcome,” Dolovitch said.

“For what?”  More buttons pressed, more levers tugged.  The noises from the Fortunate’s belly were disturbing to say the least.  Her standard engine was an old one, and not accustomed to being pushed at full speed for such a distance.

“For saving life.  For saving boat.  You’re welcome.”  He sat back down on the bench, now broken on one side, leaning back again and closing his eyes.

Quentin paused, finding nothing adequate to say.  Thank you?  You shouldn’t have done what you did?  I appreciate it, but…?  “A good man was killed not five minutes ago.  I’m sure you could tell he wasn’t a rotten sort.”  He thought about his own life thus far; about his boyhood, about his own mother, his two sisters.  About the woman he loved dearly who died in childbirth, taking the baby with her.  He thought about how close he’d grown to his nieces and nephews during that trying time.  How he’d come to look on them as his own children.  How grateful he was to be assured personally by The General that none of them would come to any harm when the invasion began.  “You killed him to save us.  To save the Fortunate.  You are not without honor, and I thank you, Dolovitch.”  As confident as he was, in certain moments Quentin swore that his loyalty only held to keep his family from any possible danger.  He stared up at the envelope above, the taught tethering ropes creaking and twanging as it was gently battered by the increasing winds.  They were nearing the coast.

“We have Doctor in Whingem?” Dolovitch grunted.

“No.  But law is a trifle…overlooked out in The Crevices.  The town Doctor won’t ask too many questions, you can be assured.”  Whingem: just inside of Corland’s rule, yet tucked deep, deep in the crags and wide rills that dotted the mountainous Eastern border.  A town seldom visited by authority, but often visited by tax collectors and various others of dubious ilk–thieves, fugitives, mercenaries; not plentiful, but expected.  “I don’t plan on spending more than 5 hours docked there.  I can’t tell from here, but the exhaust just sounds like it’s been shredded up pretty bad.  Should be a relatively quick fix.  I left some parts there with our man on my way to Corland for just such an emergency.”

“Wise.”

“Well, Viska was on my manifest, I figured something would explode.”

Dolovitch laughed; his belly and broad chest heaving.

Quentin eased the Fortunate back towards the looming mountains.  She drifted higher and higher over rising hills, pockets of valleys and green thickets; on into the cloudy mists that covered the clusters of peaks and stony scrubland hidden deep within the range.  Behind her, Corland lay in a muffled confusion as dragon riders returned; their mounts tired and thirsty, wing joints bloody, swollen and strained from the afternoon’s efforts.  Nightfall saw the Guard’s patrol barge pacing the sky in a 3 mile radius around the city, desperately waiting for any sign of a returning Wing Admiral Adkins, and of course his huge dragoness.  A worn out Constable Bellick gently nursed the bruise on his throat as he tied urgent bulletins to several pigeons in the city’s aerie and sent them to every corner of the kingdom, imploring anyone in sight of a larger, older model clipper with a curious circular exhaust port on her rear to exercise caution, and to notify local lawmen immediately.  Just after midnight a posse of riders with fresh mounts gathered at the docks, studying a map by streetlamp.  One group would fan out and search for Adkins, the other would head further East into the mountains in search of the fugitives.

And nearly six miles from the city, in a muddy stretch of reeds and fetid water, the frozen bits of Adkin’s shattered body were beginning to thaw.  Some of the more curious wildlife even came around to make a meal out of his torso, still covered in the padded leather vest.  Most of his fingers lay in meaty shards buried in the silt, the various frogs and tiny lizards having their fill as well.  His gun stood upright in the bog; the polished, wooden stock just waiting for someone to retrieve it.  And not a hundred feet away lay a massive hillock of dark grey scales and boney protuberances.  A heavy, lifeless mound of meat and wings; one horn stuck in the morass beneath her.  Looking every inch like she still belonged to the air, she appeared almost regal in her stillness–the fauna dare not touch her.  Merchant ships drifted by overhead, clearly ignorant to what was beneath them in the dark.  Tinkers and local farmers trudged by on the rutted cobbles a scant half-mile away, never knowing the bloody scene hidden in the tall grass.

A heartbreaking sound broke the empty silence of the night, halfway between a harsh screech and a wail.  When the wind blew just so, it traveled from Corland’s docks and out over the vast, empty farmland nearly all the way to the hills.  Those in The Coppers did not find the luxury of sleep that night, and even those that only heard its echo found themselves chilled, and saddened beyond measure. 

It was the sound of dragons, calling out and crying for their lost sister.

Chapter 2-Part 3

Viska was climbing back up onto the deck when the dragoness came into view.  She flapped and drifted around the port side.  Every stroke of her wings sent a slight gust of wind through his blond hair.  Her grey scales glistened and twinkled in the light of the late afternoon sun.  A long, sturdy neck, hung with royal draping, supported a stately horned head.  Her nostrils flared, snorted, and spewed wisps of smoke.  Eyes like coal from the deepest mines of hell–chiseled out and shaped into beauty by the Undergod himself.  She roared again, sending shivers down both of their spines.

While the dragon herself was a massive, fearsome beast, the rider astride her back was nothing if not remarkably plain in comparison.  Young, but old enough to know a family of his own, and an obviously decorated military career; he wore the deep red skullcap that many of Corland’s riders wore, and a vest of padded leather over a short, crimson coat; the tails of which draped over the dragon’s rump.  The legs of his brown trousers were tucked into long military boots, firmly hooked into the stirrups dangling from the saddle.  In one hand he clutched the reins; in the other he held a rifle to his shoulder.

Quentin knew him.  Twelve years as a decorated Captain in His Majesty’s Air Corps, how could he not?  The dragoness, however…he’d never known of one so big.  He’d seen bucks in the wild slightly larger than her, but none willing to be tamed, none willing to serve and to bond with a rider.  He’d been away from Corland nearly 4 years, and the unlikely had apparently become the accomplished.

“By order of His Majesty Janus IV and by authority of the Royal Family of Corland you are ordered to land this vessel now and prepare to be boarded!”  His voice carried easily with the turbine reduced to silence and the gentle chug of the onboard engine taking its place.  His rifle was wisely trained on Viska, his eyes never leaving that freakishly painted face.

“Can’t do that, boy,” Viska said.  “We have a schedule that cannot be altered.”

He pulled the reins, easing the winged creature closer to the ship.  She put both clawed, monstrous feet on the railing and perched.  She spread her wings wide and issued a terrible growl; shadow filled the deck as the sun was blotted out.  The Fortunate dipped to the left under her weight, making both men adjust their footing.  Quentin winced and glanced at the wheel.  They would surely be thrown off course after too much of this.

“I wasn’t giving you a choice.  You fired on my men, you fled from us, you’re wanted for questioning.  Land now.  Believe me, this beautiful girl here can drag you to the ground if you like.”  The dragon tightened her claws around her perch, cracking and splintering the wood in a show of strength.

“Commodore Adkins,” Quentin spoke up.  He stepped towards the aft stairs.  “Put the gun down, my friend, and let’s talk.  Can we do that?”  He lifted his hands in a show of peace.

“It’s Wing Admiral Adkins now.  And no, no we can’t.  I don’t know how you know my name, and I don’t much care at the moment.  I’ve got the Mad Jester staring right down the barrel of my gun and you want to talk?”

“Of course you realize, now that you’ve seen me you have to die.”  Viska grinned.  Adkins wasn’t fazed and neither was the dragon.

“You have until the count of 5 to decelerate and drop sky before my lass pulls the boat apart.  She crumpled up your fancy pipe work in the rear, don’t make her get dirty with the rest of this dinghy.”

“Admiral, I’m sorry but that’s not possible,” Quentin shrugged.  “This ship is rigged to explode on my command.  You see there are several others down below ready to press dangerous buttons; I need only give the signal.”  A bluff.  Not even a very good one, but enough to give Adkins pause.

“You lie.  What could you possibly have in this boat that would justify suicide?  One.”

“Adkins, don’t be foolish.  Nobody has to die today.  But you will, and so will she,” he gestured to the dragon, “if you don’t fly away right now.  One word, Adkins.  One word and we all fall flaming, in pieces.”

“This man here has a bigger file with the City Guard than any other deranged lunatic they’ve ever put away.  I know his work.  I know his style, and suicide isn’t it.  Two.”

Viska’s smile turned to astonishment.  “I have a style?”

Quentin continued, “I once saw you break a wild buck in just under two hours.  Fleet Commander said he’d never seen anything like it.  You’ve got brains, and skill.  But you’re not reckless.  You know that.  Do you really want to risk your life to catch him?”  If bluffing wouldn’t sway him, perhaps a little nostalgia and insight into his personal life laced with veiled threats might.  It was all true, of course; a wild buck, long as a small house, broken and bonded faster than anyone had ever thought possible.  He’d been saddled, draped and given a spot in the stables before the night was out.

“He put several of my friends in the hospital.  One of them lost a hand.  I’m not reckless, but some risks are simply too good not to take.  Three.”

“I remember that,” Viska mused.  “Five guards against one man with a dagger.  You should’ve brought more.”

Quentin desperately reached for more of Adkin’s life within his bank of memories.  No children.  No marriage.  A sick mother.  A lush for a brother.  Father killed in the Freehold Conflict.  Four years can change a life, certainly.  And saying the wrong thing could blow the entire situation in the wrong direction.  He was running out of ideas.  He focused hard on the man upon the dragon, desperately struggling with the options at his disposal.  He had to speak and he had to speak quickly.  He blurted, “Adkins, your mother doesn’t deserve to have to read your obituary.  She’s too old and ill to attend a military funeral.  Don’t make me do this, lad.  Don’t make me tell my friends to start smacking buttons.”

Adkins, oddly, had no retort, and no new number to call out.

Quentin kept it going, “Your brother!  Your brother can’t possibly have it in him to do right by her.  I once heard you say he spent more of his life drinking than he did being awake.”  He went to the bannister, cautiously putting a foot on the first stair down. 

Adkins never took his eyes off Viska.  But his words had left him for the moment.  The dragoness flexed her claws anxiously, snorting more smoke.  He swallowed hard; the apple in his throat bobbing up and down.

“Maybe I should just make the call, pilot,” Viska grinned again.  “I wouldn’t mind being on fire.  I know real pain.  Besides, that big bitch’s body might actually break my fall.”  Finally he had something helpful to contribute to the gamble.

Quentin couldn’t help but wince at the sentiment, and sure enough Adkins seemed to snap back to the present and took his hand off the reins to tighten his grip on the rifle.  “Talk like that won’t stand with me, Jester.  Now, I don’t know who you are, or how you know so much about my life but if you think for one second that I’m letting this freak slip through my fingers over the notion of an explosion then you don’t know me very well.  Reckless or no, anyone that runs from the horn is mine.  FOUR!”

For all his loyalties, and his commitments to seeing The General’s plans come to splendid fruition, Quentin was no murderer.  And, honestly, he had no desire to see this man die.  If Viska had his druthers–and he usually did–most of Adkin’s body would be plummeting to the ground by now, while the rest of it would be shoved onto sticks and strings and made to dance and sing in a shrill voice as some gruesome, macabre marionette.  The dragon would be raped, cooked and eaten; her remains prayed over and then pushed off the boat with a solemn hymn.  Thankfully, Adkins had a gun pointed at the madman.

“My gods you’re feisty,” Viska said.  “That bank job I pulled?  You would’ve made a fine addition to the crew.  Yes, I shot them all on the way out, but three of them lived.  That could’ve been you!”

The big dragon tightened he grip; muscles tensing in her legs.  Her wings shook slightly at her sides, her head dipped until it was eye level with Viska.  “You know, they don’t understand everything we say, dragons,” Adkins said.  “But they know enough.  Enough to know who I’d like to see ripped apart.  Enough to know when to eviscerate, and bite and protect.  Five.”  She spread her wings again, and roared, ripping her perch clean off the ship and slamming the talons of one wing against the deck.  The wood snapped and splintered, sending shards in every direction.

Quentin’s jaw dropped open.  Viska didn’t move, but the smile had left his face.

“Enjoy the sky while you can, lads!” Adkins called out.  “We’ll be landing in a few minutes whether you like it or n–“

The crack and sizzle of a strange gunshot echoed around them.  Then another.  Adkins looked down at his chest to see a bullet hole.  Instead of blood, however, there was ice.  Frost.  Frost spread quickly from the yawning wound to cover his vest, and then his arms and neck.  Fear and panic filled his face as the ice engulfed his features, freezing them solid.  His skullcap glazed over, and his boots.

“No.  No, no…”  Quentin, shook his head and ran down the staircase to the broken railing.  “NO!”  He reached out an arm, but was simply too late.  Adkins, frozen from head to toe, tumbled from the saddle; looking very much like a statue dropped by a negligent sculptor.  The dragon had ceased her theatrics as well.  She flapped feebly, but couldn’t help clawing at her own bullet wound.  She’d been shot just below the draping, at the base of the neck.  The ice didn’t spread far; forming a perfect halo of sparkling blue.  She wouldn’t freeze up, but she wouldn’t be able to ignore the pain either.  A screech and a thrashing of the neck before she followed Adkins downward; a demon falling from a heaven she was not meant to tread.    

Viska and Quentin turned in unison to see Dolovitch, poking out of the hatch up on the aft observation deck above the Captain’s quarters, big as ever and looking just as weary, gripping the butt of a rather large, rather strange looking pistol

“What the hell did you do that for!?  Why did you shoot him!?”  Quentin shouted, peering back over the railing while Viska walked over to join him.  The falling pair was already behind them, but Quentin could still just make out the frozen form of Adkins hitting the ground…breaking unceremoniously into glittering pieces, followed moments later by the larger visage of his mount landing nearby.  No sign or sound of the other riders.  Corland was a mere smudge in the distance.  He looked back to Dolovitch, now out of the hatch and looking around in all directions.  “Why didn’t you just shoot the bitch!?  He would’ve let us go!”  Indeed, he had no doubt a skilled rider like Adkins would’ve found a way to land the big girl safely, albeit maybe a bit on the rough side.

“He talk too much.  Make head hurt.”  He pointed to his bandage, now good and bloodied in the back.  “He would be trouble when we come back with fleet.”

Quentin had no argument to that, as much as he wanted one.  He gritted his teeth and stared a bit longer at the shrinking mound of silvery scale on the ground far below.  A good man.  A decent man with a will to do nothing less than the best job he could do.  Skilled; and deserving of a far more honorable death.  The General would’ve agreed with him, he had no doubt.  “He was out of ammo, you know,” he said to Viska, who was staring at the same spot with squinted eyes and a breeze ruffling his hair.

“How do you figure that, pilot?”

“He wasn’t lying about your file.  I’ve seen it too.  Any man in Corland with a gun and a chance would’ve shot you without hesitation, no matter the threat.”

“He had a dragon; he should’ve ordered the kill, then.”

“You don’t know much about dragons do you?”

Viska looked indignant.  “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Teaching a dragon to kill one target while leaving others alone can be…difficult.  Bloodlust, you see.”  Quentin sighed, taking off his hat.  “He…didn’t see the need for me to die.”

“Bloody fool.”  Viska took some wilted, brown flower petals out of his pocket and scattered them over the side on the passing breeze, making a holy gesture as they drifted down and away.  “I need to take a piss.”  With that, he turned and headed back below, passing Dolovitch headed back up.  He still held the infusion revolver in his hand.

Chapter 2-Part 2

Quentin tried his best to look casual as he walked out onto the Captain’s deck and took hold of the wheel, easing it all the way left.  Loud hisses and quick, cloudy belches of steam rose from her right side as the airship gradually slipped out into the tangled web of departures and arrivals.  The Guardsmen wandering the docks took no notice, except for the young lad in the rear.  His face was staring right at them.  Dolovitch was back on the stern bench, head leaning doggedly back against the wood.  Quentin rang the make-way bell and slipped right underneath a barge headed Northwest over Banker’s Row and then out to the farmlands beyond the city wall.  He shot a look back at Dock 28 just in time to see the Constable bounding up the stairs to the elevated jetty.  His comrade’s faces looked confused as they peered out at the Fortunate and the surrounding traffic.  Quentin couldn’t hear the sounds of the docks anymore, but he could imagine the shouting that the young Constable must’ve been doing as he furiously pointed out at them.

            “Dammit,” Quentin said, almost indifferently.  He called out to Dolovitch, “Hold on tight, big fellow! The lad you tried to kill must’ve seen you!”  He should’ve told the big man to head downstairs along with Viska, but it was too late for second guesses.

            The guardsmen were assembled at the foot of the stairs now, pointing this way and that.  Some nodded and ran off, no doubt to summon the Riders.  The others took off running in the direction of the City Guard’s patrolboat dock.  Dolovitch rose from the bench, cursing.  He walked over to the bridge stairs and gripped the bannister.  “They come?”

            “They will.  If I were them I’d send the dragons.  I’m not them, of course, but I’m not taking any chances.”  He skillfully pulled and pushed several switches next the helm and the ship started descending.  Another whoosh of steam and he eased the wheel all the way to the right.  “I see a straight shot under all this traffic.  I’ll find us a stretch and open up the turbine.”

            “Here?” Dolovitch asked. 

            “No choice.  Our cover was blown anyhow, right?  If those dragons get to us…they’ll board.  And then we’ll have a whole different set of problems to deal with.”

            Dolovitch went around the deck, checking the rigging ropes and clamps on the all the crates and barrels.  “Everything secure.”

            “Can’t say the same for downstairs.  With any luck we’ll miss out on a bumpy ride.”  He pumped the helm switches artfully; the Fortunate slowly easing down and under the relentless flow of ships.  He whipped the wheel left and only just avoided a smaller skiff recklessly swooping by.  He cursed under his breath and looked back at the quickly shrinking docks.  Sure enough, he spotted the signature black and white stripes of a Corland City Guard patrol barge’s envelope rising from the tangle of jetties.

            The infusion turbine strapped to the guts of the boat was a thing of beauty.  Dangerous, experimental, highly combustible; but priceless if you ever found yourself pursued by dragon riders or newer model attack skiffs.  In practice runs Quentin had been pleased with the performance–speed, without the cumbersome loss of mobility.  It had a tendency to vibrate…a lot; but the tactical advantage was worth it.  He turned a large, brass knob that looked somewhat out of the place on the old helm controls.  A small panel slid open nearby, revealing a shiny brass button.

            “Dolovitch, I’m not sure exactly how this is going to play out, but do me a favor and tell Viska to hold on to something?”  Dolovitch nodded and trudged down the stairs, clonking loudly in his massive boots.

            The traffic thinned nearly 200 yards from the docks, and was virtually gone at lower altitudes.  Quentin slipped through the last snarl and heaved a great sigh of relief. 

            Then the horn sounded. 

            He optimistically stepped over to the railing, peering out and behind the ship at the city, growing smaller with each knot, expecting to see maybe a Royal frigate, or an emissary’s yacht.  Sometimes they preferred a loud horn to a simple make-way bell.  What he saw instead was at least half a dozen long, scaly, serpentine wingspans headed through the tangle of ships and straight out to the Fortunate.  They sported various colors: a mean, horned one blended in reds and burnt umber; two with pallets of deep oranges.  The largest one had wings nearly as wide as the Fortunate and a coat of tarnished grey scales.  All wore the draping of the Royal family; filigree patterns and cream bordering dark purple.

            The horn sounded again.  This time Quentin saw the rider on the biggest putting the massive thing to his lips.  For anyone else, this would mean stop.  Stop now.  Ground your craft.  Prepare to be boarded in the name of the Royalty.  For Quentin, it meant hit the brass button.  He quickly stepped back over to the helm, grabbed the wheel and glanced around the sky.  Light traffic, with a few skiffs darting around to port and several cargo tugs inching through the air, but a straight shot ahead, to the East, with the mountains on the horizon and the sun sinking behind him.  He cracked his neck, sighed and hoped that Viska might fall out of his chair and break something painful, then hit the shiny button.

            The sound started low; a whhiiiirrrrrllllll that hit the gut, dwelt there and shook.  It didn’t quite drown the next horn blast.  There was a slight rumbling in the deck as the old wood paneling slid open in her stern to reveal the intake port.  Then another as her aft opened up just below the Captain’s quarters exposing the exhaust.  The rider’s horn sounded again from behind, faltering this time and sounding fearful.  The low whirl rose steadily as the intake began to do its job.  Soon it was a bellowing howl, making the entire ship tremble.  The wheel in Quentin’s hands was hard to grip; the deafening sound finally blotting out that dreadful horn.  He knew to hold on tight when the exhaust finally began to make its loud yawning.

            The turbine itself was deep, deep in the belly of the ship.  The vibration was caused by the colossal amounts of energy needed to start the intake suction process.  The ambient air around the boat was sucked in through the stern, heated and converted to steam and then sent to the turbine to produce a combustion that exited out the exhaust.  As soon as that sound came from the aft, the Fortunate rocketed forward.  A quick jolt, no doubt; but nowhere near as fast as she’d fly after ten to fifteen more seconds of power.  Quentin’s balance shifted slightly at the sudden burst, but he avoided the painful whipping of his neck he endured during the first test run.

            Had he been looking behind the ship, he might’ve seen the lead dragon–the biggest, and the most vicious looking, of course–give a sudden flap and tightening of the wings as the rider drove her down, clutching a burst of speed before rising again, flapping faster; desperately trying to gain air on the quarry.  The horn was forgotten in favor of an outright chase.  The other dragons followed suit, picking up haste but not quite as much as the grey, horned dragoness.  The Fortunate widened the gap as more and more grey steam shot from the exhaust.

              Quentin dashed to the railing again, sparing a quick glance off starboard before going back to the wheel.  The flock of riders had no hope of matching this kind of speed.  They were going to make it.  The big one in the lead was obviously flapping as hard as she could.  Screeches filled the air, just barely rising above the din of the turbine.  Suddenly a loud pop! sounded from behind.  Then another.  And then two more.  At first he thought it must be the exhaust.  Something catching fire in the exhaust.  Fear tightened his throat; the math and the tests showed a minimal chance of engine failure, and even less likelihood for a full on melt down.  Then a whizzing noise rent the air off port, then starboard, and fear turned to anger.

            Gunfire.

            The bastards were shooting at his boat.  The alloy plating provided little risk of damage, and the canvas of her envelope ensured that no simple civilian revolvers stood a chance of blowing it open.  But the turbine…if they somehow damaged the exhaust port, the whole turbine would have to be shut down and repaired, meaning the chances of meeting his promise of a base arrival in 72 hours would become impossible.  His efforts would be wasted, and he would look incompetent not only to his peers, not only to his employer, but to himself. 

He threw the wheel hard to the left, sending the ship nearly sideways for a moment as inertia sought to carry it forward still.  He stumbled but kept a firm grasp as she righted herself.  He worked the helm’s levers and pedals as only a master Sky Pilot could, dipping her low, then back up.  He threw the wheel hard to right and sent the boat back the other way.  The gunfire was having a harder time hitting home; the whizzing sound of stray bullets taking its place.  The ship righted herself again, with the stern pointed a solid southeast.  The sea was to the right of her bow, the mountains to the left.  Most of the screeching faded…but one, the loudest of them, seemed to grow closer.

Viska stumbled up the stairs onto the deck.  “Pilot!” he screamed.  A shrill, high sound, with all the subtlety of a deranged Ether addict wailing about the spiders in his mind.  “What the hell is going on!?”  He had a revolver in his hand.  The smears of red complimented his mouth, finally.

“Well,” Quentin said calmly, pushing levers and flicking switches.  “They are shooting at–“

“I know they’re shooting at us!  I meant why are we not shooting back?!”  He marched right over to the port railing leaned over and let two bullets fly at the screeching pursuers.

“Are you mad!?” Quentin screamed.  “Haven’t we been through enough already?  You want to add shooting down a bloody dragon rider to the list?!”

Viska stepped back, pointing the gun up at Quentin.  “Nobody calls me mad, pilot.  Nobody.”

“If you really think you can pilot this ship as well as I can, with the turbine at maximum speed, you’re more than welcome to try, clown.  Otherwise, put the gun down and listen.”

“I’ve had about enough of your snark, you puny, worthless–“

“They are out of ammo, Viska.”  True enough, the whizzing sound of bullets had ceased, and the screeching had faded into the distance.  “They can’t hope to catch up to us and luckily enough they weren’t good enough to hit the exhaust.  So, once we clear those mountains,” he pointed at the range of jagged peaks growing closer.  “It’s a straight shot to base.  Relax, man.”

A sudden explosion from behind and the immediate drop in altitude sent them both to their knees.  The rear of the ship was being dragged down.  Viska held onto his gun but slid right into the descending stairwell.  Quentin lost the wheel and nearly cracked his skull on the solid wood of the Captain’s quarter doors behind him.  A loud roar, seemingly from everywhere at once, filled the sky around the Fortunate.  She dropped even farther before suddenly snapping upright, the howl of the turbine slowing to a sputtering whirrlll before dying altogether.  Wings…giant wings could be heard beating the air.  Quentin scrambled back to the helm.  Lights were flashing and gauges were dropping in the worst way possible.  He hammered the brass button again.  A coughing noise belched from her stern, and then nothing.

Chapter 2-Part 1

Quentin checked his pocket watch for what had to be the 20^th time, tapping his foot in irritation.  What was taking those two so long?  Five minutes late? 

Unacceptable.

The General would agree with him, he was sure.  Time measured out into productivity.  And if he could not produce what he felt to be a daily quota of effort, he found himself agonizing over it in a fitful sleep later on.  He leaned on the railing that overlooked the modest deck of the Fortunate and mentally went over his departure preparation checklist once again.  The envelope above slowly drifted from side to side as the chill breeze from the sea threatened harsher winds.  After another unbearable 5 minutes ticked by–his pocket watch confirmed–one of them finally came trudging up the ramp. 

Viska.  He swaggered with all the confidence of a madman who cannot see or feel the noose tightening; humming some tavern tune with hands tucked into his pockets.

“10 minutes, Viska,” Quentin said sharply.

“I’m sorry?”  He halted at the stairs leading below deck and looked up at him, running his fingers through his tangled mess of flaxen hair.

“10 minutes overdue.  We agreed on half past two, did we not?”

“Why yes, yes we did.  Is there a problem?”

“Well,” he said, trying put calm in his voice.  “I sent a bird to The General this morning assuring him that we would be docking at base in no more than 72 hours.  Every minute wasted here puts my assurance at risk.  Do you get that?”  Quentin was no fool, and he knew better than to cross The General’s clown, but his business was also The General’s business.  Making promises that could not be kept could mean a pay suspension.  Or worse.

“I understand, my friend.  Dolovitch and I were detained longer than intended.”

“And where is he?  Am I to expect a third passenger as you mentioned?”  The note brought by messenger at midday was brief, but clear:

 

Half past two, Dock 28 confirmed.  May board with new recruit  -V.

 

“Unfortunately, no.  Dolovitch is taking care of disposal and should be here any moment.”  Viska smiled.  Quentin could never stomach the sight of it.  Big, white teeth framed by unusually red lips.  And the eyes, the eyes on him.  Grey, like lonely stone–a clear sign of badlands heritage–but big and constantly widened; the look confined to men in restraining jackets and padded rooms.

“He’s not with you?!”  Quentin burst out.  “Not only are you late but now I have to wait for that beast as well?  Do you have any idea how irresponsible that is?!”  He pulled off his dark purple sky captain’s hat and threw it to the deck.  “I mean, what if something was to happen to him, huh?  You don’t exactly try to recruit weaklings do you?  Why not stay with him to make sure your mess is all taken care of?”

Viska’s eyes never left Quentin’s as he slowly plodded up the aft stairs to the bridge.  He walked right up to the frantic man and stood with his face only inches away.  His breath reeked of madness, along with bread and salty butter.  “Listen, pilot,” he hissed.  “I don’t appreciate the tone with which you’re speaking to me.  I know full well the risks involved with possible recruitment.  I’m not worried about them.  You may agonize and fret about it all you wish, but,” he held up a finger, whispering, “do it in silence.  I would hate to see The General’s reaction to insubordination during such a crucial time as this.  Understood?”

“You don’t outrank me, clown.”  Quentin’s voice shook, and he found himself unable to exhale.  “You may be his favorite little pet, but according The General’s own code of conduct, the absence of a ranking officer aboard any military vessel automatically defers the chain of command to the vessel’s Captain.  That would be me.  When I say it’s time to leave, I expect my schedule to be followed…I would hate to see his reaction to a direct violation of orders.”

Viska’s reputation of insanity amongst The General’s cadre of advisors and Lieutenants was well earned.  Quentin recalled an instance, in the early days of the current operation, when he had picked a Slender soldier up and tossed his rotting form–rasping what screams he could muster–into a smelting furnace simply for pointing out that he had smudged his bizarre and haphazard motley face paint.

“Aww.  Yes, yes you are the Captain, my dear friend.”  Viska patted Quentin’s cheek tenderly, ending with a small slap.  “I will do my best to make sure your orders are met, with efficiency, from now on.”  He turned to leave, looking back saying, “This is a nice boat, pilot.  Retrofitted with all of our dear General’s shiny new toys.  She can fly as high as…what, 8 thousand feet with that new Infusion turbine?  Lots of accidents can happen that high up…where the air is so thin.  I can make just about anything look like an accident…stay out of my face for the duration of the flight.”  Quentin watched him walk away, back down to the foredeck and then further downstairs into crew quarters. 

“If he’s not back in 5 minutes, I am leaving, Viska.”  Quentin called after him, grabbing his hat from the floor.  A high, shrill laugh could just barely be heard as the door closed.  Viska’s cackle was not the mark of a stable man.

Quentin’s military training, the kinds of things he’d seen and done in the previous two conflicts that Corland had thrown itself into kept fear from seeping too deep into his brain.  And it showed.  A brief three months after recruitment and The General himself had promoted him to Captain.  And not just Captain, but Captain of the Fortunate.  She sported a weathered, beaten hull to the casual onlooker, but there were so many experimental modifications hidden in her belowdecks.  An Infusion turbine engine that increased her speed to well beyond 60 knots and reinforced Infusion alloy plating covering 68% of her hull just under the old wood paneling.  Not to mention experimental cannons, the cache of Infused carbines and metal slugs hidden behind the rum rations.  None of it detectable by the random search or inventory count, of course but still enough to make Quentin nervous for even piloting her.  He strolled down to the foredeck and leaned on the railing, watching more ships and ferries drift lazily by; the occasional dragon soaring down towards the stables near the waterfront.  He checked his pocket watch again. 

Just off the bow a ways, the Royal ferry sailed past.  Her make-way bell rang out merrily.  What appeared to be a little boy wearing a decent suit and a top hat stood on her deck.  If depression had a face, it would look like this poor kid.  They locked eyes for only a moment before Quentin realized it was a Gnome.  They nodded silently to each other, tipping hats.  He watched the small craft rise higher, and float gracefully over the ramshackle houses of The Coppers, then Central Plaza, and on to Steambound Keep farther north. 

He turned from the rail at the sound of a throaty groan.  Coming up the ramp, with his bowler hat missing and an unhealthy amount of dried blood soaked into his shirt collar, Dolovitch looked like hell.  One meaty hand held the back of his head as he swerved up and onto the deck.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Quentin griped.  He walked over to Dolovitch and tried to steady him, yelling, “Viska!  Viska get your ass up here you daft…” he knew better than to finish that thought.  Fearless as he was, he knew Viska was not one to bluff when it came to threats.  He led the big man by the arm to a low bench near the stern, plopping him down hard with the sound of splintering wood.  “Good gods, man, what happened?”  He pried Dolovitch’s hand away from his head, revealing a mess of bloody, matted hair and a fresh, wet wound.  His left forearm bore a nasty burn.

Viska barreled up the stairs from below, fuming, “I see that you have trouble understand–“  His eyes widened at the sight of Dolovitch.  “Bloody hell.”  He ran over to the bench and knelt down.  “What the fuck happened to you, man?  Did that little squirt do this?”  His face was half done up in his signature jester paint, a smudged black diamond around his left eye, grimy off-white dots around his right.  His mouth was still missing the disturbing red smudges at each corner.  The mere sight was enough to make most men address the floor when he asked them questions.

“Constable find me,” Dolovitch said.  “Give Gnome just time to slip away.  Try to kill Constable…” he trailed off.  He tried to put his hand back on his wound.

“Don’t touch that,” Quentin said, moving Dolovitch’s hand away.  “Viska, keep his hand off that.  I’m going to grab some bandages.”  He hurried down below.

“Tell me you killed them, you worthless oaf,” Viska snarled.

“I try kill Constable…Gnome come back, hit me in head with hard pipe.  Twice.  I wake up alone.”

Viska stood and punched a nearby crate, splintering the wood and leaving his knuckles bloody.  If it hurt, he didn’t say so.  “You’ve ruined everything here for us, do you know that?!  All the progress, all the intel!  The General will be completely blind until we make our move now.  I’ll have to send birds to every other contact here.  Most of them might not even get out!  Every one of ours caught is another chance that Janus will know more than he should!  And all because you couldn’t kill a measly Gnome and a feckless City Guard?!”

“I tried.”  Dolovitch resignedly slouched forward, giving a big heavy sigh.

“It’s not entirely his fault, you ass.”  Quentin strolled back across the deck with a roll of padded linen and set about wrapping a skein around Dolovitch’s head.  “Like I said, if you had just stayed with him, or done the deed yourself, none of this would’ve happened.  Of all the stupid things to do at a time like this…with less than a month before we mobilize?”  Quentin shook his head, tearing the linen and finishing off the bandage.  “How could anybody be so fool–“ Viska was on him in a second, shoving him up against the port side railing with a serrated knife against his throat.

“That one,” he panted, “was for free, pilot.  The next comes out of your flesh, I swear it.”  Quentin’s back arched painfully, his upper half over the 40 foot drop to the bay waters below.  The blade itched and pricked his taught neck.  Viska’s mouth shot spittle as he growled, “I warned you I would suffer no further assaults on my intelligence or my choices, and I meant it.”

Dolovitch’s big hand suddenly grabbed Viska’s shoulder and pulled him away from Quentin.  “We go, now.”  He pointed towards the vibrant panorama of jetties and ships, at a small cluster of men not far off making their way amongst the hustle and bustle of the docks.  They all wore the smart, long, black uniforms of the City Guard and the one in the lead carried a long strip of paper that he paused to stare at intently as they went from ship to ship.

“That one,” Dolovitch said.  “In rear.  That one I try to kill.”  A lean, clean shaven lad brought up the rear of the group; his head twisting from side to side, obviously looking for someone in particular.

Quentin took only a moment to put his hand to his throat, seeing a small smear of blood as he pulled it away.  An insult sprang to his lips, but he knew better than to sound it.  “Better get below deck, Viska,” he said, heading quickly for the aft stairs to the Captain’s deck.  “They know your…paint around here.”

Viska mumbled something that sounded violent, throwing a dangerous stare at Quentin before hustling back below.  Crazy, but brilliant as well, if rumor was to be believed.  Though, it didn’t take brilliance to know that they had a better chance of slipping out unnoticed without the Mad Jester–as Corland’s City Guard knew him–loitering about on deck.

“Dolovitch!”  Quentin mounted the stairs by twos, hastily taking his place behind the control panel in the small bridge cabin.  His fingers danced over several switches and buttons.  Dolovitch was looking up at him intently, a grimace stamped to his features.  “Cast off the mooring lines and hit the ramp!”  He pushed a lever next to the panel.  A seemingly random button in the mess of controls in front of him lit up a sickly green. 

Dolovitch quickly pulled the two massive ropes tethering the Fortunate to the jetty back onboard and mashed a large button near the gangplank.  A massive hiss of steam sounded from under the hull and the ramp slid slowly inward.  It had not even locked into flight position when Quentin hit the green button.  The Fortunate made a loud, whooshing noise from deep within her bowels and slowly began to drift away from the dock.

Chapter 1-Part 7

Frobert cradled his side and walked across to the bustling docks.  He relished the throng of people that washed over him.  Some cast wary glances at the Gnome shuffling past their knees, with his dirty trousers, torn vest and somewhat crumpled top hat.  He went past the market and through several breezeways until he reached a broad, stone jetty that sported a very stately sign framed in gold at its end.  A tall, gilded clock stood next to the sign, with a singular hand that counted from one minute to twenty currently pointed at five.

The jetty was deserted.

“Son of a bitch!” Frobert growled.   The sign read: “Steambound Keep Ferry.  In Service.  Please Have Identification Ready Upon Disembarking.  Thank You.”  The clock’s face read, in small letters, “Ferry arrival/departure every 20 minutes.”  All jibes with the blond and Dolovitch aside, he didn’t like to miss a ferry; though, given the day’s events thus far, added to the aching throb in his ribs and the fact that he was still alive to even see the empty pier, having to wait 15 minutes for the next arrival elicited nothing more than a stern curse and a heavy sigh.

He rolled up his sleeves and rested his arms on the wooden railing that wrapped around the pier’s perimeter.  He looked around at the scores of other jetties that extended from the shore either empty or with ships moored and anchored, wondering if the man who had just left him for dead was relaxing in any of them; wondering if the city guard was searching them all one by one at that very moment.

He knew full well that these could be his last moments admiring Corland.  Could be the last time he ever saw a flight of dragons, or the majestic, taught blimps and dirigibles coming and going, or a cloud of steam blotting out the midday sun.  As if in answer, a dragon rider whooshed over the water not 40 feet away, his mount screeching.  Drink it in, he thought. 

The clock hand had ticked its way straight down to 10 when he started idly tossing small balls of fire over the railing and watching them hiss as they hit the water some 20 feet below.  He stretched, and winced as the pain he had briefly forgotten stabbed through him again.  He heard a light coughing noise behind him and turned to see a small boy, dressed in rags, bouncing a tiny ball on the stone paving.  His father sat nearby, also dressed in filthy rags, under the shade of an arched breezeway that led back into the maze of shops and businesses that scoured the docks.  The man looked completely dejected; the kind of unhappiness that comes from too many nights in the bitter cold and too few meals to quell the stomach’s rumbling.  The boy had grime and dirt tattooed on his face and the father bore several cuts and bruises.  Frobert quickly saw that the boy wore shoes at least 3 sizes too big, and that the man was barefoot–sitting next to a low, grated outlet vent that gently blew a steady fog of hot steam, obviously relishing the warmth in this Harvest Season midday chill.

The boy ceased bouncing the ball and wiped his nose, staring at Frobert.  “Spare a copper, sir?”  The father glanced up at his son, not lending much attention to his efforts.

“Spare a copper?”  Frobert walked over to them slowly.  “Spare a copper, he asks?”  His voice carried a shrewd tone. 

“Yessir…for some bread.”

“The lad don’t mean no harm, sir.  He’s just hungry, is all,” said the father.

“Oh no no no, I understand.  You’re hungry, and you want some money for food, right lad?”

The boy wiped his nose again, leaving a glistening trail of snot on his filthy shirt.  “Yessir.”

“Leave ‘im be, Nole.”  His father leaned his weary had back against the stone arch.

“But he wants a copper!” Frobert reached into his back pocket and pulled out a coin.  He held it up to the boy, who stood a good foot higher than he did.  His voice trembled.  “You deserve better than this, Nole.”  Frobert wondered what would happen to people like Nole and his father if Corland were to fall to The General.  Being homeless, and beggars, would they even have a place in the society to follow?  Would Nole be conscripted into some new military force?  Would they both be tossed through the gates and promptly locked out to starve in the wild? 

Nole reached out and timidly plucked the copper from Frobert’s fingers.  “How old are you, boy?”

“Pappa says nine next month.”  Nole’s father was staring intently at the exchange now.

“Nine,” Frobert nodded.  “My daughter was nine, you know…the last time I saw her.”  Nole said nothing.  The picture in Frobert’s vest poked him again; he drew it out and stared at the little girl smiling at him.  “She used to ask me for a copper–much the same way you just did, lad–whenever we passed the Cogbot Wind-Up Band or Boll’s candy store.  Have you ever been to Boll’s?”

Nole shook his head.

“Oh, lad you have to try their chocolate peanuts.  Believe me, you haven’t lived a proper childhood without them.”  Frobert felt a lump in his throat growing larger by the second.  His right eye started to tingle and blur with a tear.  It wasn’t fair.  Having them taken from him, it simply wasn’t fair.  He should’ve gotten on that boat with them.  Every Gnome should participate in the election and every Gnome child should get to know the process as early as possible; he had even wanted to go, but that damned interview was simply too important to pass up.  Just one more thing to blame Janus for.

“Maybe I will, sir.  Thank you.”

“My wife…she…” he trailed off, thinking of her.  Thinking of the smile she used to have plastered all over her face when they all watched the Cogbots play their music.  “She loved that place.  Loved the candied mint.  When she’d kiss me…my mouth tasted fresh for the rest of the day, let me tell you.”  Frobert wished that he’d saved just one picture of her.  In these his supposed last days it would’ve been nice to recall the creases and dimples of her sweet face; to be able to see the tender spots on her neck and cheek where he used to kiss her at the end of long, rough days. 

Nole nodded, staring down at the coin in his hands.

“It’s funny,” he continued.  “How a ferry crash and 20 years can start to wipe a person from your memory.  Even one you swore you’d love until your dying breath.”  The years of drinking didn’t do anything to help, though he didn’t mention that.  He slid the picture back in his vest pocket and kneeled down next to Nole’s father.  He took the huge wad of money he’d earned at The Queen’s Pilot and held it out to him.  “About 3 blocks up Gilder Street, and 2 blocks left down Broad, you’ll find a squat little apartment block house.  Take this, man, take it.”  Nole’s father looked at the small man kneeling next to him with eyes wide and wary.  He looked from the money to Frobert and back, nervously grabbing the mess of bills and heavy coinage from his hand.

“I don’t understand, sir,” he said.

Frobert pulled a key out of his pocket and dropped it in his lap.  “Apartment 6.  It’s dirty.  But, it’s The Coppers, what do you really expect?  Oh, and you won’t owe a thing in rent.  If Clyde comes around asking, you tell him you know Frobert, and that you know everything he knows, including the business with the innkeeper’s daughter.  Understand?”

Nole’s father nodded slowly.

“Get yourself some new clothes.  And the boy as well.  My pantry is full of cheap bourbon and other spirits, so unless that sounds like a proper lunch to you, pick a few things up from the market on the way there.”  It had always seemed like a proper lunch to him, but not anymore.  He looked over his shoulder at the clock; its hand pointed over at 15.  “Go on, you both look starved.  There’s good blankets and running hot water at my place–well, your place now.  Take care of yourselves.”  With that he stood up and headed back to the railing.  He didn’t look to see them go.  Moments later he felt a tapping on his shoulder.  He turned to see Nole, holding the copper coin out to him.

“I think you need the chocolate peanuts more than I do, sir.”

Tears welled up in his eyes again, dripping in earnest down his face.  He managed a chuckle and took the coin.  “I think you’re right, lad.  I think you’re right.”  Nole smiled and walked back to his father.  They both waved and said emphatic thank-yous before disappearing back into the labyrinth of shops.

Frobert sighed and looked out over the water.  He tried and tried to remember exactly what her face looked like, grasping the necessary outlines, hair color, and eyes.  But other details were simply too hazy to recollect.  He clearly remembered hearing about the crash, though; clearly recalled the specificity of the details, “No Survivors” and “Election Postponed” were phrases he still heard often in his deepest nightmares.

“I still love you, Mayla,” he whispered.  Sometimes simply saying her name out loud brought sharper images of her to mind. 

The clock hand was nearing 20, and Frobert could already see the violet and black checkered pattern of the Royal Ferry’s envelope drifting over the docks, its make-way bell deeper and louder than any other.  It sank lower and lower as it neared, and finally came to rest next to the jetty just as the clock’s hand ticked straight up at 20.  A golden Cogbot stepped out onto the small, covered deck from the cramped pilot’s cabin.

“Now b-b-boarding for Steamb-b-bound Keep,” it said in a hollow but stately stutter.  It pulled a lever on the side of the boat and a ramp extended out of the metal hull to the quay.  Frobert peered up at the Cogbot, half expecting it to be RG hissing up on deck waiting for him.  Here we go, he thought, painfully trudging up onto the small ship.  I’m off to be a hero.

Chapter 1-Part 6

             Frobert locked eyes with Dolovitch.  No empathy could be found there, not even any basic humanity.  They were the eyes of a soulless body; with no heart or compassion to fuel the cognizance of right and wrong, just or unjust.  Find a way out.  Live.  Frobert readied his thoughts, breathing heavily as Dolovitch readied his fist again.

            “You make bad choice,” Dolovitch growled.  He pulled his fist back, the knuckles cracking and the sinews in his arms tense.  “I good at this.  You die quick, no worry.”  His shoulder launched forward, rocketing doom square into Frobert’s face.

            “What’s all this then, gentlemen?  Is there a problem here?”

            Dolovitch’s arm stopped and fell to his side instantly.  In unison they both turned their heads towards the voice.  For a split second Frobert saw him, a City Constable; with his shiny revolver drawn and cocked, dressed in his long black uniform jacket and tall hat he was by far the most beautiful thing Frobert had ever laid eyes on.

            Wasting no time, Frobert grabbed Dolovitch’s forearm and summoned the hottest flame he was able to muster.  Dolovitch let rip a throaty, pain filled growl and dropped him to the ground.  In an instant Frobert dove through the giant’s open legs, jumped and kicked off the opposite brick wall, and landed square on Dolovitch’s back.  He grabbed a handful of the larger man’s shirt collar and held on for dear life.

            “Oi!  Hey, hey what’s going on here?!”  The constable ran closer, raising his gun.  “Get off him, lad!  Both of you!  Get on your knees, now!”

            “Go for backup!”  Frobert yelled.  “Go get help!”

            “I said get down!  Stop!”

            Dolovitch was now flailing about, his injured arm forgotten in a blinding rage.  He reached behind his neck, grasping for the Gnome, or his tiny hands.  He stumbled around, growling; throwing his fists blindly.  Frobert shot a poorly aimed fireball at his head, succeeding only in knocking off and setting fire to his hat.  He tried again, this time missing completely, leaving a blackened spot of char on the brick wall.

            The Constable was at a loss; his eyes darted from the big man to the little one, his gun shaking as he shifted between targets frantically.  “I-i-if someone doesn’t stop right now, I will shoot!  D’ya hear me?!” he shouted.

            Frobert raised his free hand to try another flame before Dolovitch rammed his back into the nearest wall, crushing him between the unyielding stone of the wall and his rock solid spine.  He felt a rude cracking sensation in his chest and tried to cry out in pain, his face squeezed and muffled in a squash of agony; letting go of the shirt collar and collapsing in a heap on the ground.  He was still conscious, though barely, and each breath felt like shards of glass rising and falling in his lungs.  Spots of inky violet and black filled his blurry vision.

            “Alright now, alright, sir,” the Constable said, his gun now focused on Dolovitch.  “Alright, now I need you to stay there and get down on your knees with your hands on your head, we clear?”  Dolovitch did no such thing, walking towards the man with blatant disregard for the pistol.  “Sir!  On your knees!”  In mere moments the giant had snatched the gun away from him and lifted him up by the neck.  He wrapped his other hand around the poor man’s throat and began to squeeze.

            Frobert tried to cough, managing weak gasps and choking sounds.  Bracing his shoulder against the wall, he managed to painfully push himself upright inch by unbearable inch.  He stumbled towards Dolovitch, nearly tripping over a piece of broken pipe.  Gasping desperately for breath that was gradually coming easier, he cradled his side with one arm and held out the other for stability. 

The Constable’s face was reddening as his hat fell off; his eyes bulged and rolled back in their sockets.  Dolovitch’s knuckles turned white.  The pain in Frobert’s side was beginning to numb as another rush of adrenaline started to take over.  Find a way out.  Live became Let him go you massive bastard.  The Constable’s hands feebly rose and fell as the strength to fight back faded away.  A rubbery, grinding noise came from his neck as Dolovitch tightened his grip even harder.  His lips formed the word “Stop”, but could find no purchase to make sound any longer.

Dolovitch never saw Frobert coming; never heard him shuffling over from behind, dragging the heavy, broken length of pipe.  He only felt the burst of pain as Frobert swung it hard at his left kneecap.  His leg gave out, he dropped the Constable and fell to one knee, snarling and grinding his teeth. 

Frobert was on him instantly, hurdling onto his back again, grabbing the shirt collar and reaching out for the pipe with his other hand.  It trembled on the ground; the dull ache in his side was still a nuisance, his focus nearly impossible.  The Constable scrambled backwards on his elbows, sputtering and coughing; a drip of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.  The pipe began to rise; Frobert’s eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched.  When he felt the cold steel finally in his palm, he gripped tight and brought it down hard on Dolovitch’s head.  The huge man from the Southern Freeholds did not collapse–he actually stood up, howling with pain and wrath.  He limped with all haste away from the scene, shaking his head in disarray.  It took Frobert a moment to realize that he was actually attempting to run away.  With no hesitation, he brought the pipe down on Dolovitch’s head again.  This time he silently fell to both knees, before falling forward onto his face.  He lay still; eyes shut and moved no more.

Frobert stood up on his broad muscled back, like some miniature game hunter posing with his kill.  He dropped the pipe, and turned to the Constable, who was still hacking and spitting up globs of blood.  “Are you…alright?” he asked, clutching his ribs again, struggling to breathe between syllables.

The man shook his head, dazed.  Frobert hopped off the fallen mass of flesh and walked over to him.  He spied his top hat on the ground some feet away and reached out for it, bringing it flying to his hand.  He did the same for the Constable’s.  “That…escalated…rather quickly…eh?”  He handed him his hat and put his own back on.  As the adrenaline waned, the crippling pain began to flare up.  The Constable didn’t answer, but nodded.  “Can you…talk?” Frobert asked.

“Hurts,” was all the man could whisper.  It was a hoarse, scratchy sound.  He was young, maybe a shade under his 25^th year, with a clean shaven face and neatly edged, short sideburns of thick black hair; green eyes and a well-toned build.  A nasty ring of red and purple was forming around his neck.    

Frobert knelt down with a moan, looking at the name stitched under the city’s sigil on his sleeve.  “Officer…I’m sorry…Constable Bellick…is it?”  The Constable nodded; started to mouth something.  “No no no…don’t try to…talk, lad.”  He stood up, gesturing to the body of Dolovitch.  “I believe…he might’ve…bruised your windpipe.”

He walked over and picked up Bellick’s gun, taking care to hold it by the barrel, and handed it back to him.  “Can you…walk?” he asked.  Bellick nodded.  “I would…help you up…but I am very small…and one of my…ribs…might be broken.”  Bellick slowly pushed himself to his knees and then his feet.  He decocked his revolver and slid it back into the leather pancake holster under his coat.

            “Go get your watch commander,” Frobert said.  They started to leave the alley together.  “Tell him…to put out a general bulletin…for a man named ‘Quentin’…he’ll have a ship at the docks…he’s aiding and possibly colluding with dangerous men…usurpers of the Crown.”  Bellick nodded, pointing back down the alley with eyebrows raised.  “Yes, that rather large fellow was one of them.”

            The thick steam tapered off as they stepped through the mouth of the alley and into the broad thoroughfare of Front Street.  Just across the cobbled road were the docks, bustling with business, life and commotion as the echoing sounds had promised.  Wooden shanties as well as smartly built brick shops, inns and taverns seemed to fight for passerby attention around a crude fish and sundry market.  Various piers poked out into the vast vermillion of Corshus bay; the cold water lapping at the massive stone breakers 200 yards out.  Fishing barges filled the waters, along with various pleasure crafts–with limp sails that looked painfully out of place–owned by folk who still found joy in the heaving of the sea under their feet.  Above them, the sky was positively choked with airships of all shapes, makes and models.  Some hung low at anchor over the water, with thick planking extending to stone quays–men with boxes or sacks swarmed on and around these.  Some were just rising into the air to join the various lines of traffic that led away or over Corland to parts elsewhere.  Some were tiny, no more than glorified hot-air balloons, here and there painted with the distinct yellow and black markings of aircabs and short range ferryboats–these could be spotted anywhere above the city at all hours.  Peppered among them all were the dragons; diving and swooping around the big envelopes and broad hulls, screeching and calling to others.  Still more sat chained on the ground, either tearing away at haunches of meat or straining against their chains in want of more airtime.  Frobert had expected many after his discussion with RG, but the sight of so many in the air at once was breathtaking. 

Steam exhaust valves hissed, make-way bells rang out; the sheer presence of life was comforting–especially when life was almost a bitter memory for him just minutes ago.

Bellick tapped him on the shoulder, pointed to him and made a hand motion that said, “You’re coming with me.”

Frobert looked at him with reproach.  “I can’t.”  Bellick nodded, lips pursed. 

“No, I really can’t.  Look I just saved your life; believe me when I say I committed no crime back there.  And accept my apologies for not being able to help you with any kind of investigation but I am needed at the Keep.”

Bellick sighed heavily, looking around and gently rubbing his bruised throat. 

“Look, I’m Frobert.  Give that name to the watch commander if you catch trouble for not bringing me in, ok?  Do what you have to but go.  Finding that big fellow’s partner and this ‘Quentin’ are more important than protocol at the moment.  Go.  I’ll be at the Keep if your superiors want to find me later.”

Bellick hesitated, then reached out a hand, nodding.  He rasped, “Thank you.”

Frobert gladly shook his hand.  “To you as well.  We live to fight another day, eh?”  Bellick smiled, nodded and then quickly headed off down the street. 

Liebster Award?? Me??

Nearly a week on this blog, and I’m already being nominated for some kind of award 🙂 I can only hope I’m worthy.

The 11 Questions I must answer to accept the award:

1. How many books do you read a year?

–three or four

2. What is your favourite sci-fi series?

–to name an ultimate super favorite it tough, but that honor can only go to Firefly.

3. What is your favourite sci-fi movie?

–(note toughness of #3) …Aliens.  Gotta be Aliens.  Get away from her you bitch.

4. Invisibility or Flight?

-Psshh.  Flight.  Hands down.

5. Batman or Superman?

-Batman trumps the tights.  Christopher Nolan proved this.

6. Best meal you have ever made yourself?

-Pasta putanesca.  Sauce from scratch, al dente noodles, not the best thing I’ve ever tasted, but damn satisfying.

7. The last grade in school you remember enjoying:

Junior year of HS.

8. Your secret super power:

I’m the best father ever.  Supernaturally so. 

9. The colour of your eyes AND the colour you WISH they were:

Hazel; wish they were green.

10. The car you wish you owned:

An airship.  Nuff said.

11. What were you doing on Sept. 11, 2001?

Watching the news coverage at school.  Intense, emotional, and eye opening.  It was my senior year.

11 Questions for my nominees:

1.  Who is your biggest influence?

2.  Just HOW hard could Batman kick superman’s ass?

3.  Favorite musical?

4.  Ever done any acting?  Stage or screen.

5.  Favorite comfort food?

6.  Star Wars or Star Trek?

7.  Favorite Television Show?

8.  Favorite Book?  Or book series if too difficult.

9.  If you could choose one, what superpower would you have?

10.  Which season do you prefer the most?

11.  Coffee or tea?

Lastly, I nominate the following for a Liebster.

http://aportiaadamsadventure.com/

http://herdthinner.wordpress.com/

http://lrsteele.com/

http://zombieaussi.wordpress.com/