Quartz, page 3
The woman climbed up and into what looked like a disused maintenance tunnel, narrow and low, its entrance almost invisible in the surrounding rock. Rafe hurried after her.
“Wait!” Rafe heard its soft mental whir a moment before the machine clicked into alertness. Something small and box-shaped launched itself at his knees. He kicked out at it and winced as his toes made impact. The machine—only a spider, thankfully—hit rock, bounced up, came skittering back. Rafe braced himself.
And the woman was in front of him. She sidestepped swiftly, and the spider, locked on her position, swiveled towards her. Its front legs lashed out, but she’d already moved. They danced for a few steps, the spider confused and thrusting blindly, the woman weaving and maneuvering. Finally she stepped in with a series of kicks that smashed the spider into the wall. Then she leaned down and put her fist through what passed for the thing’s head.
Its many legs twitched once, violently, then lay still.
It was over in moments. Rafe had barely taken two steps forward to help her.
“They’ll guess what happened when they find the machine. The Primary is bound to check in eventually,” cautioned Rafe, trying not to gape.
“We can muddy the waters a little.” The woman picked up the spider—broken and dead, it could be tucked under an arm—and ducked out of the tunnel long enough to chuck it out on to the tracks, right at the bend.
“If a train crunches it, they’ll think it got confused and wandered onto the tracks.”
Rafe nodded. Spiders were old mage-made technology. No one these days knew how they worked or how to make them, not even the Shimmer mages. The conscripts running the Primary might not even know of this one’s existence.
He hoped.
“Come on,” called the woman. She flashed a light, briefly.
He followed her further in for a short distance. Mud squelched under his feet. “Where now?”
She pointed the light beam up to where a rusted iron ladder, missing rungs in spots, led up to an iron cover.
“This is it?” Rafe followed the light. “You’re planning to bring us up into Brethren Circle, right in the middle of the Girdlesday crowd and the arms of the stazi?”
“How perspicacious of you. As it happens, you’re right.” The woman climbed up the ladder and knocked a rapid staccato on the cover with the end of her light. Then she pushed up the cover and peered down, face pale in the darkness. “Coming?”
Rafe briefly considered staying right where he was. But the water currently soaking his boots was undrinkable and the fields of fungus were long past. The faint screech of a raptor decided him. Rafe shot up the ladder.
He came through the hole, shielding his head with an arm, in case someone decided to use his skull for furniture-bashing practice. And stared up at a circle of blackened faces, grins like horrible white slashes.
Rafe flung himself out, tackled the nearest body. It went down with an oof and a discordant jangle. His fingers caught in scratchy gold cloth and came away in a shower of sequins. He barely registered the anomaly of foes festooned in finery before he was belly-crawling through a forest of feet, swiping at ankles, making for an exit—any exit—out of the human ring.
“Hey, hey!” A hand clamped down on Rafe’s collar and hauled him up till he dangled like a fish on a line. Rafe twisted and tried to jab at the man’s windpipe, but the swift movement was too much for his hollow aching stomach. He hunched over and retched.
“A poor sewerfish you found, Izzy. Half-dead and with no fashion sense. Let me tell you, boy, that muddy yellow does not work for your complexion.”
Rafe lifted bleary eyes to the face of this self-proclaimed fashion expert. A huge man, with slashes of red and blue paint on face and hairy naked chest, parted his lips in a grin—or a grimace. He looked like some kind of demon. A demon wearing tight cloth-of-gold pants covered with spangles.
Look who’s talking flitted onto Rafe’s tongue. He swallowed the words down with difficulty.
“Leave him be. He’s had a trying time of it, Burgess.” The woman stood out, not only because she was a head taller than all the rest save the giant and Rafe (had he actually been standing instead of being held up by his collar), but in that she was dressed soberly in black shirt and pants and her moon-pale face was naked of all cosmetics. Her silvery hair was pulled back into a severe knot and she examined him out of dark, guarded eyes.
Rafe opened his mouth, intending to demand to know where he was and what was going on. What came out, though, was, “Izzy?”
He had the satisfaction of seeing the woman’s lips thin. She did not look at Burgess, but that not-looking was pointed. The giant wilted.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Izzy. Perhaps you can tell your friend to release me.” They were in a large tent lit by oil lamps and the only exit was blocked by four men, looking grim and warlike in spite of reddened lips, white-coated faces, sequined leotards and cheap silver tights. Rafe added, “And I wouldn’t dream of trying to get past those extremely martial-looking gentlemen at the flap. Especially since they would probably breathe fire over me if I tried.”
Burgess gave a bark of laughter and let Rafe go. Rafe’s feet seemed surprised to find themselves having to work to support him. His treacherous knees buckled and his hips and spine followed suit. His head met the ground. “Ouch.”
Izzy’s face was above him, a faint line between her brows. “He probably hasn’t eaten or slept in days.” Her voice came from a great distance away and her face began to blur.
Rafe smiled. He was lightheaded and it felt wonderful, being freed from all responsibility to Oakhaven. “Two days to be precise. Though I may have dozed off in the dumpster,” he said as she hauled him into a sitting position. “Did you know that Blackstonians drink a lot of ginger tea? I didn’t either, before my sojourn in the dumpster.” The next instant, she thrust his head down into his drawn-up knees. “Ow.”
A few moments later, before the dizziness had quite cleared, someone thrust a water bottle into his hand. Rafe drank deeply. The water was cool and sharp and slightly earthy. Before he had had nearly enough, Izzy took the canteen away and put a soup bowl in his hand. “Eat. You need your strength.”
Rafe needed no urging. His stomach groaned as the first spoonful slid warm and thick and savory into his belly. He spooned the soup faster into his mouth. Izzy stayed his hand. “Slowly. Or you’ll be sick.”
Izzy and Burgess sat beside him. The others had drifted away; most had left the tent. Occasionally, a guard gave Rafe a fierce look. To pace himself, Rafe said between mouthfuls, “Water and food. I must be in Selene’s palace. Next, you’ll be offering me a nest of plump cushions to sleep in.”
Izzy shook her head. “No. You’ll have to make do with a pallet and a blanket.” Rafe ate soup rather than saying It was just a joke. She wasn’t the laughing type.
“Don’t eat yourself into a stupor. Rest is a long way off.”
Rafe lifted a brow.
“The New Year’s Eve celebrations are two stages away.” Interesting. She’d used the Oakhaven measurement of time. “If you want to leave Blackstone alive, then this is the best time.”
“Try to slip out of the gates in the hopes all the guards will be away? Have to explain why I’m not guzzling my beer ration or gawking at jugglers? Why would anyone want to leave Blackstone in the middle of New Year festivities?” Rafe ought to have been more grateful to his rescuer but impending continued lack of sleep made him cranky.
“No.” Her serenity was infuriating. She had to realize he was goading her. “We’re going to make it so that they will be practically pushing you out the gate before moonrise.”
Burgess grinned. Rafe looked around the tent, at the men in paint and sparkles; at the batons, whips, and hoops piled in the corners; and the coils of wicking material and cans of kerosene. “Oh, no.”
“Surely you can dance a little?” Izzy’s look held a faint challenge. Rafe was an excellent dancer—he was known in Oakhaven society for it—but he had the uncomfortable feeling that his rescuer already knew that. Flames, where did he know her from?
“But firedancing?”
Burgess clapped his shoulder. Soup sloshed out of Rafe’s bowl and soaked his deplorably-dyed trousers. “A lesson or two and you’ll be all right. Just remember not to set your hair alight and leave the fancy moves to us.”
“I’ll try.” Rafe sighed. “When do we begin?”
Rafe was relieved to learn that he was expected to wield only one of a firedancer’s many accessories—a flaming baton which would be lit just before he went on stage. After that, it was a simple matter of moving in time to a beat pounded out on large drums. Rafe had learned square and circle dances alongside the more elegant lines and sets of high society and the moves were similar. However, there was one thing he had to do to put himself beyond any suspicion, Burgess told him apologetically.
“It’s simple, really. Head back, mouth open wide, make sure the inside of your mouth is well-coated with spit. And don’t ever breathe in during the process. Like so.” Burgess demonstrated with an unlit torch, then made Rafe do the same several times, correcting his posture and technique.
“We’ll even let you hold water in your mouth before you eat the fire. How’s that?” It obviously pained Burgess to make that concession.
“If I’m going to be quenching flames in my mouth in front of all of Blackstone, can I at least practice it with real fire first?” asked Rafe. They were in a tented practice ring, barefoot in gritty gray sand. Burgess had found him a costume almost as gaudy as his own, stiff with starch and reeking of a nauseous combination of alcohol and lavender. The vest barely laced across his bare chest.
Burgess shook his head. “Fire-eating practice is forbidden inside the city limits and I won’t be caught violating that. They’ll have all of us staked and burned, no questions asked.”
“Don’t look so surprised,” Izzy called from where she leaned against a tent-pole, arms crossed. “It’s the same everywhere, even in Oakhaven. Just remember, if you do burn yourself: don’t scream, and wait until you’re offstage before writhing on the floor in hideous pain.”
“Can I have her job?” Rafe jabbed his thumb in Izzy’s direction. She was the drummer, though Rafe doubted that was her primary occupation.
“I’m not the one being hunted by stazi,” she pointed out.
“That’s not anything I need to know about,” said Burgess. “I’m just doing a favor for a friend, taking in a fire eater with no work. If he fails to live up to his reputation, I’ll be as shocked and indignant as the rest. So you’d better practice those steps again.” He stalked out, a short purple cape swinging behind him.
Rafe’s smile twisted. “It would be a shame to waste all your hard work now.” He picked up the baton. “Hit it, Izzy.”
She pushed herself away from the pole and stood behind the drums, hands poised above them. “Stop calling me that.”
“You haven’t given me any other name to call you by.”
“Try Merciful Rescuer or Mysterious Benefactor.”
“Too long.”
“How about Nia?” she offered. Nia was a diminutive for any number of common names.
“No. It was hard at first, but I’m getting used to Izzy. I might end up calling you Iz-Nia by mistake.”
She sighed. “Would Isabella roll off Your Lordship’s tongue better?”
“It might.”
“That’ll do, then. Now why don’t we work on the insignificant matter of perfecting your disguise so you can actually get out of here alive?”
“Whatever you say… Isabella.”
Isabella slapped the drum a mite too hard, kept the pace a tad too fast. Rafe stepped, spun, threw, kicked in an odd combination of wild abandon and tight control. Muscles were loose and limber and gestures flamboyant, but each move was precise, each step only so long. Rafe focused inwards, reaching into that part of him that was always alert, vital, drowning out worry and nagging aches with the free-flowing stretch of muscles and tendons. He’d always been athletic and was glad of the many hours he’d put in at the gymnasium before the Blackstone mission.
Of course, he’d done all that on the assumption he might find himself scaling walls and getting into hand-to-hand combat with the stazi, not masquerading as a firedancer.
“You misstepped,” called Isabella. “Do it again.”
Rafe gritted his teeth and complied.
“I’m surprised you’re helping me.” His aching right heel struck the ground hard. Pain jolted up his ankle. “Aren’t I competition?”
“Depends. Are you a Blackstone double agent?”
Rafe gave a short laugh. “Not likely. Are you one of Oakhaven’s spies? Did the Minister of Information send you?”
“No.”
He hadn’t expected her to reply in the affirmative. Uncle Leo would’ve told him if he’d sent another agent into Blackstone. “Clearwater, then. Or one of the Trans-Point states?”
She didn’t respond, but none of his guesses felt right. She knew his name and his mission, so she had to have good Oakhaven connections. Clearwater maintained trade relations with the Blackstone regime that it wouldn’t want to compromise—the Fisher Council tended to like stability. The Trans-Point states didn’t usually meddle in politics this side of the disc. And Shimmer, populated by the only mages born after the dragon’s rampage seven centuries ago, was isolationist. Its relationships with other states were based on the trade of mage-made items, mostly lamps and machine parts, for the quartz that powered their magic.
Rafe was too out of breath to ask more questions. But he ran faces through his head—people he’d met at parties and diplomatic dinners, in state meetings and in shady taverns, hoping she’d turn up in his memories.
The booming of the drum reverberated in blood and bone, sand flurried around his ankles, baton spun and slashed in his hands. Rafe tossed it high into the air. It shimmered as it twisted and fell, and he caught it with a flourishing stretch that brought him to kneel in the sand. Energy coursed through his veins.
“You’re kicking up too much dust.”
Rafe took in great gulps of acrid air. “Shall I do it again, then?”
“No.” Isabella came out from behind the drums. “You might fall down dead.”
“Then give me leave to sleep.”
“There isn’t much time before the performance. Girdlesday is almost over.” Isabella cocked her head. As if on cue, bells began a discordant jangle, a theatrical mourning for the old year as the moon slipped below the horizon for a brief disappearance before New Year’s Day. “You’re on in less than three gongs.” Back to Blackstone time.
“It’ll be enough.” He turned to leave, but Isabella stayed him with a raised hand.
“You’re going to be in public. Blackstone considers all itinerant performers to be licentious, frequently drunk, and prone to gambling, petty theft, and low cunning. Make sure you show them exactly what they expect.”
“I’ll douse myself with grass wine,” Rafe promised. “I still need an armful of femininity, though. Are you volunteering?”
Isabella snorted.
Rafe took that as a no.
Once ensconced in his new quarters, in a nest of blankets smelling of ash, sweat, and remarkably, compost, Rafe pulled out the ovoid object he had pilfered from the Blackstone train.
The item fit warm and well into his hand. It was flat-bottomed, as if meant to be mounted into some sort of setting. Was it an artifact of the pre-Blackstone era, created or acquired by the Goldmoon aristocracy? Gilt lines made abstract designs upon a blue surface that had once been lustrous, but was now battered and chipped. Rafe pushed his fingernail into the seams and pushed down on the thumbprint-sized depressions, but nothing clicked open. How had it made that infernal noise? Was it an alarm of some sort, sensitive to… what? Temperature, air pressure, a heartbeat?
The mages of centuries ago had made devices like these, some to entertain, some to work, and others whose purposes could only be guessed at. The mage Renat, one of the thirteen kayan who’d died after binding the dragon, had been fond of this kind of shape for his magical engineering. The physical remains of some of his works—defensive wards, light exhibits, and architectural wonders—often had sockets for what scholars had come to refer to as Renat Keys. Rafe’s Uncle Leo had three of them in his private collection. They were no more than curiosities now. No one had been able to make them work.
This one looked to be an imitation. Perhaps it had been made by Shimmer mages. If Rafe ever got some leisure time, he might take it apart to see how it worked.
Rafe put away the object and pulled out the pamphlet Berlioz had given him. It was printed on cheap rough paper, ridged where the type had punched down too hard. On the Liberty of Man proclaimed the title, followed by a passionate literary outpouring full of dashes, rhetorical questions, and exclamations. Dried leaves fell from between the pages.
Rafe glanced at them. Ironweed. Blackstonians grew it for its leaves, which were smoked, and roots, which formed a mildly hallucinogenic brew called poor man’s friend. He turned the pages, looking for some hidden code, or a scribble in the margins.
Nothing.
The leaves slid in his lap and Rafe made to brush them off. Then he paused, frowning, and picked up the stem, staring closely.
Long leaves, set in pairs, exactly like ironweed, but the leaves were toothed, not smooth, and even dried there was a bluish-purple tinge to them. Rafe had never seen a real specimen—none had been found for at least two hundred years—but every surveyor and botanist learned of the plant from illustrations.
Dragonlace.
Stunned, Rafe leaned his head back against the pillows. Dragonlace was entirely out-of-place in the modern world with its factories and trains, coal furnaces and gas lamps. It was something from a legend, a vision dreamt by old men enveloped in the blue haze of their pipes. Someone had found real dragonlace, and with it, discovered a massive vein of the greatest resource in the world.
