The foundry, p.19
The Foundry, page 19
Baryy went to help her. Whispered something in her ear and brought the drinks himself. “Sorry Baldor old cone,” he used the term “cone” which meant many things to a Timberkeep, one of them being a prickly object under foot, "but it seems I've only ordered three drinks." He sat down and passed out the mugs when he could have instead asked Daryan to fetch more.
“Oh, that be fine. My drink is over at the bar.” He eyed the frothy crocks and returned his attention back to the master trader “So, I hear you saved the day in the fight with the loglards. You and them merc friends of yours.”
Achelous kept his breathing even and slouched in his chair. “You’re well-informed Mister Prairiegrass, what is it you do for an occupation?”
“Oi, I do a bit of mining, coaling, and even wall building.” He leaned across the table and lowered his voice to conspire, “Worked on the clan’s farce of a wall. As if it could keep out a gecko.” He leaned back and waved his hand in a circle, “Truth be known, if it weren't for old Sedge the Kledge chasing the loglards we wouldn’t have to build no wall, and I wouldn’t have lost my farm.” The sweet smirk was gone, replaced by an acidic twist.
Taken aback Baryy stammered, “You think the Timbers are responsible for the loss of your farm?”
Baldor wheeled on him. “Of bloody course they are,” he hissed. “A whole lot of us had to flee when the loglards came out of their swamp. They’d still be there if the Timmies had stayed in Whispering Bough.”
Achelous sensed an age-old argument brewing, one that Baryy had no place being in the middle of. “Be that as it may...Baldor, Wedgewood is here now, and I don’t see it packing up and leaving any time soon, so the best we can do is profit from it.” On a hunch, he let the word profit hang over the table.
Something clicked in Baldor, and his smirk was back on, though his countenance was still dark. “Speaking of profit, I heard you stopped at Lycealia.” He waited for Achelous to react. “You and the Paleo priest struck a bargain for information.”
Achelous felt a distinct irritation at Baldor knowing so much. The fight with the trogs he could understand, as there were a good many mercenaries with Sedge, but knowing about their visit to Lycealia and his dealings with the priest troubled him. “I’m a trader,” he said noncommittally, “I need information to know what to buy or sell. What are you selling?”
The man shrugged, “You went out of your way to Lycealia; mayhap you're looking for Ancient artifacts?” His lips cracked to show teeth.
Achelous's irritation escalated. The last thing they needed was for this rumormonger to spread the word they were artifact hunters. He needed a way to get rid of Baldor and confer with Baryy. Fortuitously it showed up in the form of roast loin of boar. “Well, I don’t know about Ancient artifacts. I prefer spices, gems, and arms. But my dinner is here, and I am famished. Shall we continue this some other time?” He gave his own version of a sickly-sweet smirk, communicating in Baldor’s language. The man rose, bid the three a good evening, and made his way past the other tables to the front door, apparently forgetting his tankard at the bar.
A tense silence settled on the table. Achelous stared at Baryy, “He’s well informed.”
Baryy nodded, looking around as he replied just above a whisper, “I’m pretty sure his odd jobs are just a cover for him to meet and grouse with people. His real business is selling information.”
“What sort and to whom.”
He shrugged, “Anything really, but I know he’s cozy with the Paleowrights and the Nakish traders that come through.”
Achelous had a dozen other questions to ask, but he figured they could wait until they were back at the cabin. Suddenly he felt very tired, hungry, and in dire need of more than one ale. He hefted his mug and quaffed the stout dark fluid, the coldness cascading smoothly down his throat. Seeing Outish subdued, he felt a twinge of guilt. The intern had been excited and in awe of his first visit to a provincial town and the Wedgewood tavern until Baldor had effectively cast a pall over it. Achelous nudged him with an elbow. “You want to try a mug of the local favorite, rakia. It’s fermented birch sap? It's like sipping crystal mint spiced with raspberries but with an eenu's kick. And finish your stew; we’re a long way from an autoserv.” He looked to Baryy. “When in-country, live in-country.” He lifted his mug of Bash-Me-Brains in toast.
Baryy smiled, “Hear, hear. To Wedgwood and the Woodlife.” They held up their mugs until Outish got the hint.
A group of miners at the table nearest theirs raised their mugs, toasting Outish "Like the Turfy says, to the Woodlife!"
More patrons raised their mugs, and the cheer spread around the tavern like a flock of geese taking to the air. "To the Woodlife!"
Outish quickly glanced at Achelous, wide-eyed. The lute player started, leading the fiddlers in a rousing mining song. The pipe smoke no longer seemed to bother him. The crowd noise resolved into a song as miners, millers, and masons alike chanted and stamped to the tune. For once, Outish began to feel, maybe not at home, but at least welcomed in his surroundings. He dug into the berga stew and found it to be blistering hot and delicious.
Baryy raised his mug in a second toast, “To fine women and finer food.”
“Here, here,” Achelous enjoined.
Outish beamed and raised his water cup. Life as a CivMon agent might not be so bad after all, he thought. Then, out loud, "Maybe I will try some of that rakia."
As the flutist and fiddlers packed up their instruments and left for home, Achelous rose from the table and waved to Outish and Baryy that it was time to leave. CivMon doctrine dictated one member of the party must stay sober at all times and that no agent could become “inebriated.” Well, Achelous figured, he wasn’t inebriated, but someone, most likely him, had forgotten to assign sobriety duty. As they weaved their way past the emptying tables, he stopped. With the musicians and bar-steaders gone, the aquamarine-5 pegmatite stood in plain sight. Achelous squinted, able to see the artifact for the first time in all its glory. “Smokes,” he breathed, “A million credits?” He slowly shook his head. More like thirty million credits, he thought. With that at stake, a corsair team could come in, ignore every security layer we have in place, and do a swoop and scoop. Simple brute force. Shoot the few provincials that got in their way, blast for orbit, and cycle the shift generator for deep space. He sighed, trying not to think of the mayhem that would cause. Hell, ULUP be damned. We should confiscate it just to save Wedgewood from being attacked.
Being a virolmir, as they said in Northwren, had its advantages. In the Isuelt common tongue virolmir translated to wisdom thief, or more loosely—a spy. Baldor did not consider himself a spy. He’d sell information to anyone, even the Timmies if they paid him enough. As of now the Washentrufel, the Nak Drakas secret service, was the most interested in what he had to sell: updates on the construction of Wedgewood fortifications, the training and arming of the militia by Sedge, and how much gold the Timmies were extracting from their mine. The cheap Drakan bastards barely pay enough for my expenses, and the arrogant morons act as if they know everything I tell them, but at least they are buying, he thought with satisfaction. In his experience, people didn't pay for information they didn't need, which told him a lot about the Drakans. There was one good nugget of information he held back, waiting for its value to appreciate. There was a risk the Washenfoofel fools would learn it themselves, but he doubted it. Most people don’t know the huge crystal in Murali’s' is aquamarine. Quartz they say. Bah! Blue-green quartz? Such idiots.
A cat bounded in the hayloft above, chasing a mouse. Baldor listened with predator interest to the sounds of the struggle while he peered through a crack in the stable door. He huddled under his cloak; the cold mountain air penetrated his bones. A bale of hay served as a seat. He'd long reconciled himself to the life of a virolmir, both the good and bad. Shifting on the bale to generate heat, his breath frosted in the darkness.
Finally, Baryy and his boss, and the lackey came out from the inn. Grass fire and gopher holes, you've made me wait long enough, you drunken morons. What's it been? Two hours? The big-eared lackey stumbled on the stoop, but the boss caught him by the collar. Baldor smiled in the dark. The pickings would be easy tonight. Of his methods for gathering information, eavesdropping was his favorite. Properly positioned, usually out of sight, it was amazing what he heard, and it was free!
Early on in his career, he’d learned that information begat information. Learning who was dorking who opened wide the door to blackmail, not just for money but for more dirty secrets about others. It became a fine art of knowing when to blackmail and when to wait for the future victim to rise up the social ladder and then threaten with revelations. There were other ways he picked up rumors and tidbits leading to bigger stories. Like grousing with fellow workers and buying drinks – though he was too cheap to enjoy it.
Squinting in the dark, he saw the boss shut some sort of book and put it away. Odd, what would he be reading now? Waiting until the trio walked down the street and around a corner, Baldor slipped out of the stables like a satisfied barn mouser.
“Oh gosh, humm, oi, am I drunk.” Outish staggered, his head spinning. Up was down and down was up, then he was lying flat on his back. From far away the chief inspector leaned down from a great height. Then his stomach lurched. He rolled and heaved his guts into the dirt. “Ugh.”
Baryy asked, “Atch, do you think his metamorphosis treatment is reacting to the alcohol?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve never heard of any cross-effects or negative interactions. Unfortunately, our astrobiologist, the one who would know, is lying in the dirt. When we get back to the cabin, I'll give him some ataflourazene.”
Together they lifted the Halorite-Doroman, each taking an arm, careful to avoid the slime, and began to drag him back to the cabin. “Oh, am so, so, so, so, sorry, boss. I—” a dry heave interrupted his rambling. “Oh spirits, I will never drink again.”
Achelous laughed, a bit loudly he realized. “Yeah, sure. What you need to do is learn how to drink. In our line of business, you never know who you’ll be sitting across from. If a Darnkilden Ranger offers you a skin of wine and you refuse they’ll take offense.”
Baldor slipped past the hitching post where the lackey had collapsed in the dirt. The sharp odor of vomit mixed with eenu piss tainted the air like fresh skunk. Waiting by the post, ignoring the smell, he kept a good distance behind, just far enough to hear them. What is an astrobiologist? Some sort of trader slang? Metamorphosis treatment? Was that a hazing ritual?
A large fly or perhaps a hummingbird orbited above his head for a moment, then whisked away. Not a thought did he give to the oddity of an insect buzzing by on the cold, starless night.
Achelous stopped; Baryy nearly dropped Outish face first when the inspector let his arm slip free. “Smokes,” he cursed and fumbled for his bible. Then he thought better of it. He bent down and grabbed the arm.
“What?” asked Baryy.
“Nothing, friend.”
Baryy twitched, standing straighter. His training took over, and he casually pulled Outish's arm higher over his shoulder, looking to his side and behind, following the chief inspector’s lead. They trudged on in silence.
Baryy coughed loudly and said, “Outish, you smell like a latrine,” then whispered, “how many?”
“Yea, I think I peed my pants.”
Achelous responded clearly, “Next time, we’ll bring diapers.
Don't need no diaper,” he slurred, “I already peed. It's warm.”
At the cabin, Baryy unlocked the door, and they deposited Outish on the floor in the tiny kitchen. In the dark, away from the window, Achelous opened up his bible. “Looks like we have one bogey,” he said softly. “Trailed us from Murali’s. The aural pattern matches an older human male. He’s circling the cabin, looks like he’s angling for your back window.” Achelous moved to the front door. “Light the lamp. Act natural. Then draw the blinds on the windows. I’ll go out for an I.D.”
“Back up?” Baryy hissed, fussing with the lantern.
A curt nod from Achelous told him they’d both go out.
The lantern lit and blinds drawn, Achelous cocked and loaded his handbolt. According to the aural scanner in his multi-func and the telemetry data from the surveillance bot, the intruder stood against the cabin’s back wall near the kitchen window.
Achelous opened the front door and asked in a voice that carried in the still darkness, “Where’s the privy?”
“Out back,” said Baryy loudly.
Achelous promptly stepped off the front porch and made his way directly around the rear of the cabin. He heard a noise at the rear and hurried his pace, then called loudly, “Hey! Who’s there? Baryy, someone’s using your privy!”
Keeping up the act, Baryy ran forward, “What! He can help me dig a new one!”
By the sound of running footsteps and cracking underbrush, the intruder was bolting.
Achelous listened to the running sounds recede.
“Should we chase him?”
“No,” Achelous murmured. “We’ve got his aural signature. But someone is interested in us. We need to find out who and why.”
There was silence while they watched their breaths steam away into the night. Baryy wondered what Atch was thinking. “Should I send a surveillance request to Solar? I'm sure they'd get a lock on the signature.”
For a moment, he didn't think the inspector heard him, but then Achelous replied, “You can, but Solar has orders to decommission the satellite network. You’ll have to check what they still have up there. We might have to run a few surveillance bots in town, do a sweep of our own. Post one at Murali's, another at the stables, and another at the general store. If the spook is in town, he'll turn up.”
The pain extended from between his eyes to the back of his skull in a crescendo of drums that battered his mind into dull mush. Outish had first-hand evidence of why Halorites should not drink. The late-morning sun filtered through the green boughs, the smell of pine needles, and the call of Worl Woodpeckers and Threedee Wrens did nothing to lighten his mood as he trudged back from the latrine. Today was the worst day to not have modern facilities. Mercifully, the effects of the alcohol antidote, ataflourazene, were taking hold, and intoxication drained away with each trip to the latrine. The antidote required the copious consumption of water to dilute and remove the agent's reactors.
Inside the cabin, a fire cracked and popped in the hearth. The smell of tea drew Outish to the tiny kitchen table where the chief inspector and Baryy were in discussion over the events of the previous evening. Pouring himself a mug of the steeped tea and dolloping in plenty of honey, he wedged himself in at the table.
“We've had a hit on our visitor from last night.”
Outish's head swam in a fog. He peered bleary-eyed at Baryy. “Oh?”
“A surveillance bot at Husher's DinDin picked up his signature. We got a good picture of him.” Baryy slid his purse over and opened to an imager screen. Climbing up the steps of the diner was Baldor Prairiegrass.
Outish blinked. “That’s the guy at our table last night. He’s a snoop?”
Baryy nodded, pulling the purse back. “Yep. He's a snoop alright.”
When the agent said no more, Outish shook his head, even though it hurt. “What are we going to do?
“He's got a rider,” answered Achelous. “We'll keep an eye on him. There’s an alert set to trigger all of our embeds should he come close.”
“Rider? What's a rider?” Outish was feeling so slow.
“Our friend, mister Prairiegrass, has his very own surveillance bot. It will take pictures and an aural scan of everyone he meets. That may be a lot of people the way our friend gets around, but if he's working for someone, we'll find out who, and they'll get their own rider.”
Chapter 14
Cordelei
Wedgewood
The walk-lanterns were lit, as were ladder and porch lights in the tree houses and forts. Seen from afar, they looked like giant will-o’-the-wisps hovering high in the trees. Baryy stood at the front window of his cabin. The low ceiling gave him scant room to stand, but he’d become used to it.
Outish turned to wave as he headed out on the path from the cabin, and Baryy grimaced as the intern backed into the low gate and fell over it. “Oh, smokes—” he reached for the door when Outish quickly sprang up and signaled, “I’m okay!” He dusted himself off under the walk-lamp. “Nothing broken!” He waved again and hurried off into the night.
“What did he do?” Achelous asked, pulling his muse from the fire.
“Oh, nimrod turned to wave and fell over the gate.”
The chief inspector sniffed in humor.
“He smacked his head hard. Those Halorites are tough.” Baryy took a chair in front of the fire; his rigid posture and the way he raised his heels belied his tension. “Well, at least he’s gone for a while; we won’t have to worry about him.”
Achelous pursed his lips and gave the barest nod. They’d sent Outish to Murali’s to play dice with Mergund and Lettern with strict orders to drink spiced cider only, to which he fervently agreed. The trio had taken to wandering Wedgewood together, Lettern the de facto chaperone, or at least steady rudder. “You have the bots ready?”
“I do.” Baryy eased off his elbows. “Atch, is there no other way to do this?”
Achelous continued to stare into the low fire taking the chill out of the cabin as the thin mountain air surrendered its heat to the spring night. “Probably, but I think this is the easiest and maybe the most accurate.” He gave the agent a smirk, the firelight reflecting in his brown eyes, “It is certainly the most creative. Besides,” he reached for the iron poker, “we have a deal. I get to test Cordelei, and you get to guide Mbecca.”
Baryy let out a long sigh, bouncing his heels. The fire popped, and a log hissed, steam bubbling out its end. Achelous let him stew with his thoughts. Baryy needed to reconcile their situation to his own satisfaction, at least to his own grudging avowal. Baryy could continue to suffer through his angst, watching passively as people he knew suffered and died around him while he held the knowledge to cure their ill, or he could do something. Helping Daryan's father had been simple enough. A dose of plaque-eating bacteria followed by a dose of the arresting agent cleared his heart blockage. The former Warden of the Seventh had returned to the practice field for the first time in a year, cutting and stacking with his axe like he'd never left. Unfortunately, Daryan's mother, a woman of only forty years, was a different story. Firmly in the grips of the Timber's Curse, she languished in their blacked-out lodge, hiding from the blinding daylight. She was dying, and Daryan knew it. When her mother died—and die of the tumor she most certainly would—how could he look Daryan in the eyes?
