Copper Cove Page 2

  “Yes?”

  “That was so brave of you to step in. Thank you.” She smiled.

  I blushed and tipped my cap to her. “My pleasure,” I said. She set off down the street, and I resumed my walk to Henry’s Crossing.

  There’s a chain of tea shops that sprang up here a few years ago called the Pot Perfected. The name is complete rubbish. They brew their tea in giant vats made by the Double-C, and they use the cheapest leaves they can find, and the resulting brew is flavorless at best and swill at worst. They have decent sconces and tea cakes, but that hardly makes up for it. Still, they’re all over the place now, and the Double-C guilders and the Brass fellows swear by them.

  Not me. I have some taste. That’s why I stick with Henry’s Crossing in my little corner of town. It’s not the classiest neighborhood, but Henry’s is a lovely tea room, with plenty of tables and the best damn cuppa and pastries you could ask for. I wouldn’t go anywhere else even if they didn’t give me a discount.

  About that...a few years back, just as I was starting out, I fixed their boilers and ovens and charged them a lot less than the guilds would have. The owners struck a deal with me—I would handle maintenance on their equipment, and they would give me a discount on all my tea and food. They don’t even me make pay for the newspaper.

  I popped in and placed my usual order, a sausage sandwich and a pot of Travers’ Rise And Shine, their strongest tea. Amee, the immaculately dressed sprite who worked at the counter, nodded as they passed the order to the kitchen. My favorite table, back in the corner, was open, so I took a copy of that morning’s Copper Cove Courant and sat down to read and wait for my food.

  I have no idea what a Courant is, or why the founders of our local newspaper named it that, but I still read it every day. Just not the first half or so, which is loaded with sleazy journalism of the lowest order. Stories about unsolved murders and sensational crimes, the latest puff pieces on the guilds, the doings of royalty in excruciating detail...feh. They’d been covering the new railroad line that was being built from here to Thorn Harbour every day for the last four months. I was getting sick of reading about it, and I loved everything else about the railroad.

  But once you fight your way past all that nonsense, you get to read the real news they slip in. What the city council is doing, or not doing, to help the people they were elected to supposedly assist...the latest store or crafter to be pushed out of business by the guilds...another family having to move because rents were too high or because the landlord wanted to get more out of some naive guilder who was new in town. The Copper Cove Courant hid those stories away, but they were told, and once in a while they even did some good.

  Darjeeling woke up once the tea and sandwich were brought to me. She unwound herself from my shoulder and stepped down on the table, moving carefully to one corner, looking up at me with her big round eyes. I rested my chin on my hands as she flicked her bushy red-furred tail and chirped hopefully.

  “You little moocher!” I said, shaking my head as I tore off a corner of the bread and handed it to her. She took it and started nibbling away happily as I scratched her between her pointed, white-tipped red ears.

  The porter I had met two years ago said that Darjeeling was a khala, a species native to Ranjina, a country that was many days sail from the Crescent Sea. She had somehow stowed away on his freighter, and had worked her way through half a carton of pineapples before she’d been caught. The porter had stopped the representative of the merchant’s firm from throwing her to the sharks, but he needed to find her a new home with great urgency, and before I knew it, I had a pet. This was quite annoying as I had just fixed his gyroscope, and I had expected to be paid in crowns instead of a moochy rodent who was prone to overreaction.

  After a while, I forgave the porter. Darjeeling was intelligent enough to learn and obey commands, so she could do everything from fetching me a screw that had rolled under a table to dragging my dirty socks to the hamper. She was always good to talk to, even if she didn’t quite understand what I was saying and only answered with a chirp or two. She was a marvelous way to break the ice when I met a fair lady or a handsome gentleman. And when those romances came to an end, as they always seemed to, she was there to snuggle with me and comfort me when I cried.

  This was one of those days when Darjeeling wasn’t being cooed over, so as we ate, I could read in peace. There was an article in the paper following up on a story that had run a few weeks ago, on a store that had been almost forced to close following a small fire. It turned out the owner of the building that housed the store had set the fire following a court dispute over the lease. He was now being forced to sell the building, and the merchant was both happy about the news and worried about what it would lead to. I noted the byline credited the story to Sophronia Haverford, which came as no surprise to me. She had only recently started with the Courant, but she'd already made her name as the most energetic reporter there. I liked her writing style; it had plenty of compassion and the proper amount of subtle sarcasm.

  Amee came up to my table as I finished the article and silently set a plate with a blueberry tart down in front of me. I thanked the sprite as they withdrew, and glared at Darjeeling as she crept towards the tart. “Cheeky, aren’t we?” I said. She gave me a guilty look; I sighed loudly and broke off a small piece for her.

  As Darjeeling nibbled, I noticed that there was an envelope tucked under the plate. I glanced around to ensure no one was watching before I opened it.

  I read the note, nodded to myself, and dug into my tart with haste. It would have been impolite to keep Master Rostall waiting.

  The older dwarves of Copper Cove lived on the outskirts of the city, some in caves carved into the rocky hills, others in cottages nearby, where they happily complained about their children moving out to work for the guilds. Rostall made his home in one of those cottages, and it had been appointed with all the modern conveniences, a few of which he’d had a hand in designing. He had taken pride in at one time being able to repair all those machines when they went awry. That all changed when he became affected by what he called “the condition”.

  His hands had developed a tendency to shake at odd and inappropriate moments. This was not a good thing for a crafter of any sort, for having one’s hand shake when handling delicate or expensive gearwork could damage it beyond repair. Rostall had retired once the condition became apparent, and had started tutoring a few others in crafting. He said I was his greatest success, and I was openly modest and secretly flattered.

  In recent years, he had retired from mentoring, but every now and then people still came to him for help with certain projects. He had brought me in for one of them, and was acting as a go-between between us. His note had asked for a progress report on this commission, and he had politely requested that I give it in person, so I had made the long omnibus trip from the center of town to see him.

  Rostall was wearing his old crafter’s robes, out of comfort, stubbornness and pride. He had made dwarfish tea, which was flavorful and strong, and I had just poured us both a cup and sat down. Darjeeling was perched on the top of my chair, trying her best not to catch Rostall’s eye; he had never approved of her, and only tolerated her at my insistence. I had politely declined his offer of dwarfish flaxseed biscuits, as I had no desire to chip a tooth on one.

  “How is the commission coming?” Rostall said as soon we were settled in place. He was never one for pleasantries.

  “I’m making good progress,” I said. “The last frame is almost done. After that, I start the gearwork.”

  He nodded and idly stroked his beard. “Are you having any difficulty with any part of the design?”

  “No, but…if I can be honest, I wish I could be told what I was working on.”

  Rostall took a bite from his biscuit. “Can’t do that,” he said as he chewed. “You know that.”

  “But I could make suggestions! I might be able to improve it!”

  The dwarf rolled his eyes. “Your
client isn’t interested in that. But…”

  I leaned forward in my chair. “Yes?” I said, trying not to be impatient.

  “You can ask him yourself tomorrow if you wish.”

  “What?” I sat up straight, startling Darjeeling. She tumbled off her perch, sliding down the front of the chair back and landing behind me.

  Rostall sighed very faintly. “The person who commissioned you wants to have a few words with you in private. He contacted me yesterday about this.” He pointed at the table, his finger starting to tremble. “That envelope there has all the information you need.”

  “Except why he wants to meet me, I’ll wager.” Darjeeling stuck her head in my lap, and I absently scratched her between her ears.

  “Don’t ask too many questions!” Rostall said. His voice held a touch of annoyance, though there was no way of knowing if it was because of me or the shaking in his hands.

  “Yes, sir,” I murmured.

  “This is too important for both of us. Just be polite and fill him in as best as you can.”

  “I will.”

  “Good.” Rostall picked up his tea cup as his shaking subsided. “Are you sure that pet of yours doesn’t want some biscuit?”

  I could see Darjeeling cringe. “I’m sure,” I said.

  It was one of those unfortunate moments that I’m convinced happens only to me, no matter what anyone else says. The omnibus was half a mile from my stop when it had derailed. Most of the other passengers had chosen to wait for it to be repaired, but I was in a hurry, so I started to walk to my destination.

  My mind was awhirl as I went along. Part of it was concerned about the unexpected meeting, and part was already reviewing the progress I’d made on the commission and figuring out what the next step would be. Which is why I didn’t realize what was about to take place until it had already started.

  I’ve mentioned the Double-C and the Fellowship, how the two guilds tried to keep control over all things mechanical in Copper Cove. What I may have forgotten to mention is how they handle people like me who won’t work for them.

  They persuaded the aldermen that crafters who hadn't received proper training—meaning guild training, complete with certificate, membership badge and a lengthy fee schedule—shouldn't be allowed to operate in the city, and that getting caught doing so would mean a hefty fine for the offender. The police objected at first, pointing out that their handling this was a waste of time better spent going after criminals. The guilds smoothly agreed to take over enforcement of their proposal, by performing a citizen’s arrest on anyone they caught and bringing them in. With that settled, the aldermen soon passed what became known as the Wells Act.

  I’d been caught, dragged in front of a judge, and fined once, some years back. I’d made it a point since then not to get caught again, since the fine for a second offense would destroy my savings. After that incident with the myrmidon, I knew I should try to be more alert when on the streets, to keep my guard up.

  That afternoon, though, my guard had snuck back to the barracks for a quick nap, and I had let my brain wander. I didn’t realize something was amiss until I felt Darjeeling straighten up on my shoulder. She started to chirp loudly. “What now?” I said, with a trace of irritation from having my thoughts interrupted.

  I glanced back, and then I started to run.

  A net was flying towards me. The inside was mesh, but the frame was aluminum chain, lightweight and flexible, and each corner had a small propeller that rotated fast enough to carry the net. I could see the tiny Double-C craftmarks, and I realized who they had sent after me. Not again, I thought.

  I heard mocking laughter as I ran. I saw a guilder leaning against a lamppost on a corner, wearing blue and silver, holding a wand that she was using to control the net. “Good afternoon, Miles!” Claudette Elgin, the Double-C’s top enforcer, said with a smirk, her eyes gleaming with excitement and more than a touch of lunacy. “I was so thrilled when I heard that you'd been violating the Wells Act!”

  Elgin and I had disliked each other from the day we met, which made it no surprise that she’d volunteer to bring me in. “They’re scraping the bottom of the barrel for enforcers, aren’t they?” I shouted as I made a sharp turn.

  “If it was an ale barrel, they’d find you there. What do you think of my Netralizer?”

  I raised an eyebrow as I bent to one side, the net flying past me. “That’s quite the odd name.”

  “Unique device names are my trademark!”

  “I thought your trademark was blowing up research laboratories.”

  “Shut up, Miles!” Elgin snapped. She still had a sore spot about that.

  I spun out of the net’s way and ran past a startled troll. “I mean, I’d have been fired after the first one. You blew up three and somehow got promoted.” Technically, it was a demotion; Elgin had been a promising researcher before her knack for laboratory destruction became apparent.

  “And I’ll be working in the lab again when I bring you in!” Elgin waved her wand like a conductor who had had one too many whiskey shots between the third and fourth movements. “They’ll have to take me back once they see what this invention of mine can do!”

  “Does it put out lab fires?” As the Netralizer swooped down again, I jumped aside, grateful that Darjeeling was too frozen with fear to move and distract me.

  Elgin chuckled. “Stand still, will you? I want to wrap this up before supper.”

  “Why? You have a stove to wreck while you’re putting the kettle on?” I broke into a run, and saw that the net was trailing me, barely a yard behind. I sprinted straight at Elgin and the lamppost.

  “You little wretch!” the enforcer snapped. “You’ll be crying a different tune when—”

  I stopped just short of Elgin and threw myself to the ground. Carried by its momentum, the Netralizer flew over me and hit Elgin, wrapping around her and the lamppost. The propellers swung about, entangling her further as I stood. “Looks like this wraps everything up,” I said.

  “You—you—!” Elgin shouted, struggling against the net as I plucked the wand from her hand and tossed it aside.

  “Sorry to make you late for supper,” I said with a mocking grin. “Have a good evening.” She began to swear rather impressively as I walked off. I might have stayed to taunt her some more, but I was already late. I couldn’t keep Neil waiting.

  The Crabby Kraken is my evening establishment of choice, and with good reason. The beer and the food isn’t top-notch, but it’s good enough, and it’s cheap. There’s plenty of room, the staff is tolerable, and the stools are comfortable. And it still hasn’t caught on with the guilds, which meant that my fellow independent crafters and I could eat and drink and chat in peace there.

  I scanned the crowd as I walked into the pub. It was the usual sorts, and thankfully no one had started a fight yet. Several other crafters I knew were sitting around a table that was covered with empty plates and beer mugs. “Miles!” one of them, an older man with a thick beard and thinning hair, shouted. “What happened with you and that myrmidon?”

  Word does travel fast among crafters. I tapped my Tucker’s Reverberator. “It had a bad day, Jules.”

  “A shaky story if I ever heard one!” Jules chuckled and hoisted his beer. I find it best to ignore Jules’ puns, so I settled for rolling my eyes as I made my way to the bar.

  There was a tall, scrawny young man with a pointed goatee balanced on a stool there, still wearing his red and gold work robes, nursing what I hoped was his first pint. The stool on his right was empty, so I walked over, quietly climbed on it, and tapped his shoulder.

  His eyes widened as he straightened up. He looked at me and groaned softly. “Must you always do that?” he said.

  “As long as you keep reacting like that, yes.” I chuckled as Neil shook his head.

  I admit it was an odd friendship, a renegade crafter and a member of the Fellowship of Brass. But Neil Farndon and I had known each other since childhood, and we had decided long ag
o that we weren’t going to let a little thing like guild regulations ruin our nights out.

  We both had parents who were in the Fellowship, his mother and my father, and we were expected to follow in their footsteps. Neil did so, but mine was a different story.

  Mama had died young, and it took a toll on Papa. He had started to question many things, including the way the guilds operated. By the time I was old enough to start my apprenticeship, Papa had had enough; he quit the guild and started to teach me everything he knew. After a few years, he realized that I now knew more than he did and asked Rostall to take over my training.

  Soon after that...well, sometimes, all the problems of life catch up to you at once. They did to Papa. He’s resting next to Mama, and every now and then I go to the cemetery to pay my respects.

  Neil was my one constant during all that, even when he joined the Fellowship. He had been moving up in the ranks, from apprentice to journeyman to junior designer. He was good, but he was also unconventional, and some of his ideas were starting to get resistance from his superiors.

  It had been some days since I’d last seen him, so we got caught up over our dinners after drinking a silent toast to poor Genny Stanbury. “Oh, come on, Neil!” I was saying as I added more vinegar to my chips. “It’ll just be for a few days!”

  “Sorry, Tabitha. I need that Carriger’s Calibrator.” Neil reached for his mug.

  I pouted. “And this after I let you borrow my best pocket knife.”

  “I’ll return it next week.”

  “You said that last week!”

  “At least I’m consistent.”

  “I should tell your mum about this. She’d make you return it.” I grinned. “How is she, by the way?”

  Neil glanced away. “She...she’s fine. Thanks for asking. How’s that pesky pet of yours?”

  Darjeeling was looking up at him with big, hungry eyes. It was a good thing that she was omnivorous, as it let her beg for food from everyone. “Pretending she's starving to death,” I said.