Read Tinkermage (Book 2) Online
Authors: Kenny Soward
Niksabella awoke to Termund’s gentle shaking.
“Awaken, Nika.” He’d somehow left the cocoon sleeper without rousing her, and now she was shivering. She squirmed and yawned and searched for any pockets of warmth, but there were none. It hardly seemed fair to be woken so futtering early, but she’d been the one to stay up reading halfway to dawn. All she could think to do was nod heavily and rub her eyes as Termund went off to rouse the rest of the camp.
He hadn’t been kidding about the early call. It was still dark out, clouds stretched across the sky in puffy tatters. Niksabella’s exposed face stung with cold, her nose especially, and she quickly tucked it beneath her favorite scarf while she waited for her brain to wake up.
She’d not dreamed of the Prophetess, not as far as she could tell, although she had a feeling that her dream-self had been on the hunt for the mysterious gnomestress, wading through sleep’s embrace seeking answers to both the future and the past.
I’ll find you, and when I do, you’ll have a lot to answer for.
But in truth, she hardly felt like the menace her thoughts made her out to be. At least not at this moment. Only the camp’s quiet stirring and the remote fear that she might be left behind drove her from her nest. She yawned as she pulled on her boots and tried to make herself useful by rolling up their things and tucking them into the back of a wagon.
After quick shots of cold snolt all around and breaking their fast on some dried dates and jerky, the sleepy-eyed group broke camp in reverent silence, their heads still weighted with sleep, moods muted by the oppressive, surreal quiet. They led their nickering ponies and squeaking wagons down a thin, winding path that led southward into the shadowy hills and away from what was left of anything resembling civilization.
Niksabella harrumphed and frowned at Termund’s back. Not only was she forced to walk now, but the path was becoming increasingly rutty and bent, some parts tilting the wagons at dangerous angles. She snatched a lick of fire from one of the torches and made it weave warmly between her fingers to pass the time. She cursed at the ankle-twisting holes that waited in ambush, her rugged boots bearing the brunt of her uncertain gait.
They trekked over one hill, across a fairly even tract of land, and then plunged downward again. She went to assist one gnomestress, Jess, who heaved with two hands against the back of the lead wagon to help free a stuck wheel. Niksabella had spoken to the young gnomestress on occasion and thought her amicable and open. She threw one shoulder into the effort while her flaming pet perched on the other.
“Hello, Jess,” Niksabella grunted.
Jess looked up from between her straining arms. “Oh, hello, Nika. Some conundrum we have here, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, and it doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for one, it seems like we could have doubled up on ponies and left the wagons behind. At the very least, we could have sent them on to Thrasperville and taken a more maneuverable party into these hills.”
The gnomestress shook her head. “Pardon me, milady, but you don’t seem to get the gist of this. Perhaps you should step back and let us veterans of the road do the work. You won’t be thought of less for it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Sorry, milady. All I’m saying is that you have a bit of Hightower about you.”
Niksabella stood up and put her hands on her hips. “I beg your pardon.”
“It’s the city life, ma’am. You’ve been too long in a chair…” Jess’ words turned into grunts as the team leader shouted for one final shove to free the caught vehicle.
Niksabella took three steps back, tripped on a rock, and splashed into a shallow puddle. No one had ever called her
soft
before, and she was speechless with hurt and confusion. She noticed a heat rising in her face as she watched the Thrasperville gnomes work. Despite what appeared to be a hopeless struggle, no one complained. In fact, they all seemed to think trudging along in the cold, digging wagon wheels out of unseen fissures, and holding ponies up to keep them from rolling down hills was quite normal.
Jess motioned Niksabella back over, and she went without a word, slogging along behind the wagon with the gnomestress.
“You can help if you think you’re up to it.”
Struck by a sense of pride, and more than willing to prove herself, Niksabella stuck out her chest. “Of course. What do you want me to do?”
“Just keep pressure on the back of this wagon. Even the smallest amount of leverage may keep us from getting stuck again.” Jess’s face was a vision of stoic professionalism, a veritable brick wall of emotion. “I hope you understand how important it is to push the lead wagon. If this one gets stuck, the others coming behind are sure to follow.”
Niksabella nodded and leaned forward, put her shoulders and back into it, her hands pressed against the smooth wood of the rear panel.
How did you
go
from a curious, comfortable traveler to a cold-footed, grimy laborer? Perhaps this is what traveling is all about. But if it is, then perhaps you should have stayed in Hightower.
As Niksabella trod over the mud-crunchy ground, she began to daydream. She thought about her sprocket box and all the various combinations of solutions to be found by pressing tabs, turning gears, and aligning sprockets. As a young gnomestress, she’d excelled at the puzzle, well outclassing her peers by solving the hardest problems in less than a hundred moves, almost a third more efficient than the brightest of Hightower students. And look where that had gotten her: shoving some rickety monstrosity over impossible ground.
You’re no stranger to hard work. Quit your complaining and push.
She struggled for what seemed like a painful eternity with only the nickering of ponies and occasional spattering of gnomish voices to keep her company. The sun had climbed over the mountains, but the day threatened to remain cold and gray and cloudy. Still wounded by Jess’ words, Niksabella raised her head to see how the others were doing. To her surprise, most of the other gnomes who’d been walking ahead of her were perched in the wagon or had doubled up on the ponies. Leaving one hand on the rear panel, she craned her head to look behind. Those gnomes had also mounted up, and Uncle Brit sat comfortably in the driver’s seat of the next wagon, holding the reins in one hand, his long pipe in the other, puffing happily. He lifted his instrument in salute and gave her an encouraging smile. His accoutrements, spare as they were, jiggled with his movements. The jiggling made Niksabella want to scream.
The rest avoided her eyes, faces hidden in their coats, chuckles dancing in the air, coughs to cover snickers.
You’ve been the brunt of some crude Thrasperville joke.
Niksabella’s eyes burned into Termund’s back—he was one of the only gnomes who’d remained walking—and she squelched through the mud with her fists clenched at her sides to… to… to do
what
, exactly? Well, she’d know when she got there. She wouldn’t be delivering him a kiss on the cheek; that was for sure. He must have felt her coming, for he hunched over just as she slapped both hands on his shoulders and spun him around.
“Nika!” He feigned surprise, but when he saw the look on her face, his expression quickly drooped. “It wasn’t my idea. I swear!”
He didn’t look sufficiently sorry enough, so she slapped him hard across the cheek, to the oohs and aahs—and more than a few chuckles—of his cohorts. To his credit, he didn’t back away, perfectly willing to accept his punishment.
“What kind of silly game is this?”
Termund shadowed her hands with his own as she searched for an opening to assault him further. “They do it to anyone new. Call them
pups
. It’s how they get to know you. See if you got any teeth.”
Niksabella could understand that in a way, but embarrassed with a wet backside was only fueling her anger, and Termund glanced around to get some help from his mates. None came.
“It wasn’t my idea. I told them not to do it.”
“
Who?
” Her voice had risen to a near shrill pitch, but she didn’t care. She’d not be seen as some tart who played the role of Termund’s road mistress, the brunt of everyone’s joke because they were bored.
Termund motioned around, indicating everyone in the group.
She faced them, her eyes smoldering. Some gnomes looked away or down, but most held steady, fully confident that Niksabella had no ground to stand on. And she didn’t. She was completely out of her element, standing in a puddle. “Some joke. You’ll get all three wagons stuck and no way to get them out. Just to play a joke on me. I’ve got a mind to light you all on fire.”
“They’re just teasing you to see how you would take it. It’s an honor.”
“Funny. I don’t feel honored at all.”
Termund leaned closer and took her gently by the shoulders, his voice quiet between them. It wasn’t such a task for those stone-gray eyes to disarm her when he wanted them to. Feeling a little like a fool, Niksabella wondered just how often he kowtowed to her competitive spirit. “They need to know you can take a joke, that’s all. Can you?”
For a second, just a brief second, Niksabella felt like crying. It was that old emotion again, that sense of instant defeat and sulkiness she’d often experienced when faced with adversity outside her natural element, which had then comprised the four walls of her workshop.
Go with it, Nika, even if you don’t understand it right now. Just stop being so serious; that’s what Jambraden would say. And then he’d laugh at you and feed you a piece of ruppleberry pie.
She let out a sigh and showed Termund a smile. Turning to the others, she shouted. “Now that I’ve been half drowned in woodland puddles, I hope someone will lend me a new set of stockings.” That was met with nods and savory grins from the hardy Thrasperville gnomes. “And wait till you see
my
initiation for you all. I wasn’t kidding about that.”
“Hah!” Uncle Brit cried out from his seat. “I’d watch my back if I were all of you.”
Suddenly wanting to be out of the spotlight, Niksabella turned to Termund and gestured at the wagons, all of which had stopped and were sinking into the cold mud, snow and ice turned to slush beneath heels and hooves. “I’m assuming you have a solution for this?”
“Indeed, milady. Terrence, Flay, let’s get these wagons mountain-ready.”
To Niksabella’s surprise, the Thrasperville folk exploded into enthusiastic motion, shouting and taking up positions around the wagons. They unhitched the ponies, removed bridles and traces, and led the beasts aside. They unscrewed wheel hubs and pulled out long rods, turning them and pushing them back in again. They climbed beneath the wagon chassis and hammered rods into place, pulled others free. They removed the side panels, exposing steel-framed messes of mechanisms curled into compartments at the front, middle, and rear of each side. Knobs twisted, locks popped, and levers were pushed to separate the chassis from their axles.
Niksabella was spellbound.
Some of the gnomes flashed her an occasional smile as they worked, some chuckling and shaking their heads, others looking bashful and even a little ashamed.
Not only are they up to some strange business, but the joke is certainly on you. And there you were, complaining and moaning for their amusement.
Termund climbed into the seat of one of the wagons as its cover cranked backward to disappear into a wooden compartment looped into the frame. He lifted a block of wood at his feet and turned it over, revealing a panel housing several controls. Two foot pedals emerged beside the controller block. He fiddled with a knob, checked some gauges, and then gave the “okay” signal. A fellow gnome opened a compartment behind Termund and fed pfitzer blocks inside, closed it, and patted Termund on the back. Termund pressed the left foot pedal and a button on the board simultaneously. After several seconds, he lifted his foot and finger and sat back in the seat, waiting.
The first indication of life was a low hissing, echoed at intervals by the two wagons Flay and Terrence operated, as well as a fourth, and then started up a ticking like hot metal resounding from somewhere deep in the body. The whining slowly rose to a fevered pitch as steam began to pour through the inner works and out through vents. Termund raised a lever gently, and a second series of pistons and cogs kicked in, jarringly loud at first but gradually evening out.
At first, it seemed as if nothing else would happen, and Niksabella got the gut-sinking feeling that they were going to be stuck out there with a long pony ride home. And then, with a great wrenching that threatened to toss Termund from his seat, steel-framed appendages sprouted from the now-opened side panel compartments, uncurling and jerking as their pressure lines filled with steam or fluid or whatever it was that made them move.
The legs—for that was their obvious purpose to Niksabella—eased toward the ground with spider-like grace, hovering just over the surface for a moment while Termund examined a series of gauges. Suddenly, with a loud
pop
, the flat-plated feet slammed down, and the entire frame lifted, wheels and all, from the ground.
Ponies nickered and stamped as each of the four wagons maneuvered a few yards forward and backward, the operators testing their functionality and locomotion. Niksabella watched as the vehicles worked, sounding smoother than she would have expected and venting very little steam. She blinked in amazement. The land crawlers looked like four giant bugs, thrumming and vibrating in the cold mud. Gnomes jumped aboard and began arranging cargo so everyone but those driving the ponies could sit. The wheels were tucked between the legs, and a handful of gnomes screwed on larger hubs to serve as shields while others mounted heavy crossbows above them.