Chapter 6

Pella snuck down the corridors of the palace, pausing at each intersection to look each way, always staying within arm’s reach of a likely hiding spot. She needn’t have bothered, for all she passed on the way out were the lowest tiers of workers at the end of their long day. Bustling clerks with ink-stained fingers who only cared about getting the last few bits of bureaucracy set away for the night. A few tired butlers who walked around with their eyes firmly on the ceiling, avoiding acknowledgment of tasks that could wait until morning. No-one paid the slightest attention to a disheveled, mute little girl as she slipped into the endless, rainy darkness.

The Vizier’s last words echoed dully in her head, but Pella had no idea where to go. She slipped easily into the flow of traffic on the streets, shuffling dutifully with the rest of the late night commuters. Her feet brought her automatically back to Contrapt Road, and she blinked blearily at the glowing windows of her bistro at the end of the street.

When she got close enough to better peer through the crowds, she froze with a sudden gasp that stung her throat. A line of her regular customers stood around her entrance, grumbling and resolute. In the middle of the line, towering above everyone else, were the two Simials who were so captivated by her singing. The line of angry customers was facing off against a few Oil-men, who stood their ground with mocking sneers, each bearing a broad metal shield along with their usual wrench. From inside the restaurant came a jarring crash, a clatter of furniture being thrown against wall, a moment before a chair was thrown through the window, sending an arc of glass shards into the street. The crowd surged angrily, roaring as one, and the Oil-men lifted their wrenches, just looking for the first opportunity to counter-attack.

Suddenly feeling lost, Pella walked with the crowd, passing by her poor restaurant as the other window was shattered noisily. The pedestrians around her shifted back without breaking their stride. She heard some muttering from the people about her, and a few oaths were thrown at the Oil-men, but she didn’t care. She plodded along listlessly, head bowed, before bumping into someone who shrilled indignantly at the jostling.

“Who are you to– Pella! Oh, my poor dear girl! When I saw them in the bistro I thought they had you for sure!”

Pella blinked and looked up in numb shock, meeting the worried gaze of Mrs. Reichardt-Brown, who squealed.

“Oh, what happened to your face? Quickly, quickly, come along, we must get you something for that. Come along now, I have just the ointments for that.” Her voice dropped a level as she steered Pella through the crowd. “You don’t want to be here right now. Come along, you’ll be all right.” Reichardt-Brown gathered Pella up and started steering her gently away from the riot. The faces were a grey blur around her as she let herself be walked away from Contrapt Road, and down a main thoroughfare she didn’t bother looking up to identify.

The streets turned into stairs, which turned into a carpeted hallway, which turned into a narrow metal alley. Pella looked up and found herself in a curving corridor, a steely grey tube buffed into a sheen. Reichardt-Brown was fumbling at a door, which opened with a creak. A warm glow spilled out, along with a mild, musty stench, and Reichardt-Brown turned to Pella with an apologetic smile.

“You’ll have to pardon me, my dear. Half the suite is still closed while those two idiots work out what’s wrong. Come into the sitting room, I’ll fix you some nice tea.” Reichardt-Brown bustled her in and lead her through a lavish corridor, lined with elegant marble statues and round, dusty mirrors. A single, bespectacled servant stood at the end by the door. Her glasses flashed as she bowed slightly.

“Ma’am.”

“Mercie, please take my young friend here to the sitting room, and get her some nice clothes and a robe. The poor child’s clothes are soaked through.” Reichardt-Brown turned an indulgent smile to Pella. “Relax dear, you’re safe here. I’ll be by with some tea and something for your face, all right?”

Pella nodded, and followed the servant. Mercie led her to a small sitting room, and after a bit of rummaging, found a new cotton dress and a dry towel. Bowing, the servant closed the door with a soft click. Pella half-heartedly drew the towel through her hair a few times, while look around the room.

The first thing that caught her eye was an enormous velvet painting. Depicting a sallow-faced, sad gentleman, with hair so fine he at first appeared to be bald, the portrait dominated one wall of the sitting room. Underneath stood a small dresser, on which sat a pitcher of water and a set of glasses. Overcome by a sudden ravenous thirst, Pella grabbed the pitcher and drank deeply, cool water gushing down her chin and onto her sweat-slicked dress. The water stung her raspy throat, but otherwise felt soothing and refreshing. Pella, sighed, gingerly, feeling a lot more like herself.

She changed quickly into her new clothes, and had just finished lacing up her old moccasins when a knock came from the door.

“Come–“ was all Pella could get out, before her throat constricted painfully. She coughed, then went and opened the door. Reichardt-Brown stood in the doorway, a blanket over her shoulder and carrying a tray bearing several small jars and two steaming cups of tea.

“Here, dear, drink some of this. Then I have a cream for your burns.” Reichardt-Brown managed to fuss over Pella for a few minutes, before she was interrupted mid-admonishment by a loud banging at her front door. Her wrinkled brow wrinkled up further. “I’m not expecting company. You stay here and don’t peek out. I’ll get rid of them.”

Reichardt-Brown stood, smoothed her pleated house dress, then bustled out of the room, closing the door behind her. Pella quickly stood, setting aside her tea, and tiptoed to the door. Opening it a crack, she got there just in time to hear Reichardt-Brown snap Mercie away from the door.

“–nonsense, I’ll get rid of them. You go remove anything from this corridor that would be ruined by water damage. No, not the carpet, you’ll never move it. Those paintings, yes, hurry now.” Mercie’s footsteps pattered down the length of the corridor. Pella heard Reichardt-Brown sigh, then unlatch the door. A sing-song voice drifted through.

“Evening, ma’am. Might we have a word?” Reichardt-Brown snorted in a rather unlady-like fashion.

“I called the Oil-men days ago, and yet, more than half my pipes are still leaking. I hope you don’t expect a tip now.”

“Ah, nothing like that, ma’am, for we’re here on official business, we are.”

“My repair request isn’t official?”

“Let’s just say that’s... less official. Though if you cooperate with us I wouldn’t be surprised if, say, a few of our boys were suddenly freed up…” Pella heard Reichardt-Brown sigh.

“All right, come in. What can I do for you?” Heavy footfalls sounded down the corridor, and Pella closed the door as silently as possible. She crouched, one ear pressed tightly to the door.

“We understand you’re a regular customer of the Seashell Bistro.”

“I’ve been there once or twice, yes.”

“Are you familiar with the owner?”

“That old lech? What’s he done now? Still skimping on the beef, I bet.”

“No ma’am. That bistro is owned by one…” a shuffling of papers filled the pause, “Pella Juren. Do you know her?” Pella pulled the blanket around her shoulders a little tighter. The cooling salve on her face suddenly felt very hot.

“I’m afraid I don’t.” said Reichardt-Brown, with a twinge of impatience.

“Might we look around?” This was a new voice, deeper and gravelly.

“I’m afraid you can’t. I told you, my suite’s pipes are leaking and I cannot abide furthering the damage.”

“Leaky pipes, eh? Is that why you’re standing between me and the door?” Pella froze, crouching against the door. She wanted to find a place to hide in the small sitting room, but was rooted to the spot. She feared the slightest noise would give her away.

“Yes, it is. As I said, I cannot – oh, you thug! Get away from there! Don’t open—“ Pella winced, expecting the door to be flung open. Instead, from the other side of the door, she heard a scuffle, a metallic scrape, followed by a wall-shaking roar that reverberated down the hallway. The door shook and a quick spray of water erupted around the seams. She jumped at a sudden cold tickle on her feet – looking down, she saw she was standing in a puddle.

From the other side of the door came nothing but the faint sounds of dripping. A pair of groans soon followed, low to the ground.

“Well,” came Reichardt-Brown’s voice, wavering slightly, “I hope some of your ‘boys,’ such as they are, will be ‘freed up’ soon. How soon can I expect a clean-up team, then?” Pella couldn’t catch the muttered responses, but the soggy footfalls heading down the hallway were unmistakable. A moment later, a door slammed, and she heard Reichardt-Brown sigh pleasantly.

“Well, nothing like the threat of real work to send the Oil-men scampering. Mercie, be a dear and tell our guest she should stay in the room and finish her tea. It’s not quite hospitable out here at the moment.”

Pella was feeling considerably more like her old self after an afternoon spent with Reichardt-Brown. The elderly lady had numerous stories she entertained Pella with, and kept their teacups filled with a delicious, minty brew that livened her senses. Pella made a mental note to ask her for the supplier so she could serve it at the restaurant – she didn’t expect her singing alone to bring back the crowds the Oil-men chased off.

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the sitting room door.

“Allow me,” said Reichardt-Brown, standing to open the door. “Ah, Mercie. How goes the carpet cleaning?”

“A Messieurs Casp and Grumb to see you, ma’am.” Mercie’s nose wrinkled under the bridge of her glasses as she uttered the name.

“They’re here?” asked Pella, brightly.

“I should hope so! They were so embarrassed about failing their last job for me that they undertook a new one at steep, steep discount. And you know how much they hate that.” Reichardt-Brown arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow, and Pella giggled.

There was a scuffle in the hallway and Mercie barely ducked in time as Casp sauntered into the room, bearing a large crate before him. Like a mountain in a painting, Grumb just loomed outside the door.

“Got in and out without a fuss, Missus.” He set the crate by Pella’s knees and tipped her a wink. “I hope that’s all of it.” Pella blinked, then smiled in sheer joyous surprise.

“You got my things from the restaurant? How’d you do that?”

“That ol’ Grumb, he’s a sneaky one, he is. He don’t look very sneaky, but that’s just ‘cuz he’s sneakier than he looks, because otherwise he wouldn’t be any sneaky at all, see?”

“Oh, you’re amazing!” Pella laughed, opening the crate. Along with some of her spare clothes and her folding cot, the pipe-rats had salvaged a few of her more expensive cooking utensils, her tip glass, and the battered old travel pack that held all the reminders of her tribe. She beamed at them.

“I thought I’d never see this stuff again!”

“Go on, check that it’s all there. We’ll make another pass at the bistro if we have to.”

“Impressive, gentlemen.” Reichardt-Brown murmured approvingly, and the tips of Casp’s ears turned red.

Sitting back on Reichardt-Brown’s divan, Pella upturned the leather bag. A few dusty, dried rations spilled out, along with her old flint knife and some of Bray’s poultice roots. With a thunk, a large metal knob also fell to the cushion. Pella picked it up with a frown. Her grandfather had given it to her at the start of the journey, and she was no closer to determining its purpose now than before. And yet, something about it now stirred her memory, as though she had seen it just recently, but elsewhere.

She shrugged, and smiled up at Casp.

“Just about everything, guys! Thanks!”

“Just about? Hey now, what’d we miss?”

“Aw, it’s nothing. A little wax cylinder a friend gave me.”

“A recording cylinder?” Casp’s bushy eyebrows rose. He and Grumb shared a look Pella couldn’t read.

“Well, yes. It’s not important enough to risk—“

“Say no more! We’re on the job!” Casp tipped his helmet with a flourish to Pella, then to Reichardt-Brown. He began pushing Grumb to the door. After a moment of blinking placidly, the giant got the message and began to move.

“Casp, you don’t have anything to prove! I don’t need it, really! It was just a memento.”

“Nonsense! Casp and Grumb never leave two unfinished jobs in one day! We’ll be back in an hour, tops!”

“Wait!” But the pair had already disappeared from view. A moment later, Pella heard the door slam. Reichardt-Brown shrugged elaborately.

“Brainless, but they have heart. Don’t worry, Pella. Those two have made a living based on not being seen.”

Once Casp judged they were safely out of Reichardt-Brown’s earshot, he turned to Grump, muttering quickly as they sped down the Upper Stories corridor.

“Good thing you di’n’t open your mouth back there, Grumb ol’ boy. That lady would have thrown a right fit if you told her we saw them Oil-men playing that cylinder. Now I know what you’re thinkin’, and I agree. It don’t make no sense. Why would them thugs camp out in Pella’s poor bistro and just play that song over and over again?”

“Maybe they went there for the music, too.” Grumb grunted.

“Let’s find out, shall we? I got me a bad feeling in my spleen about this, I tell you, and my spleen don’t ever lie, s’truth.”

Reaching the intersection of two hallways, the pair stopped and looked around, Casp wearing his best nonchalant face. Seeing the coast clear, they immediately pulled a set of automatic ratchets from their kits. With a synchronized twist at the worn bolts, the pair managed to unlatch and slide away one of the floor panels that separated the Upper Stories from the Gearworks. Below they lay a dense briar patch of gears and cogs, metal teeth clicking endlessly. The briars sent down roots into the Lower Steps below, and the root they now peered down dived in angles and jags into the brightly lit rooftop opening of the Seashell Bistro.

“Right then, ol’ fella. Let’s bustle on down while we still have the element o’ surprise.”

“I think someone already has it.” Grumb rumbled, pointing a blunted finger down at the rooftop. Casp followed the gesture, then threw himself back against the wall.

“It’s a refiner! They found us!” Grumb’s massive brow slowly wrinkled as he peered down below.

“They don’t know we’re here. And the other one isn’t a refiner, I don’t think.”

“No, you don’t think. Of course they’re after us, why else would they be here?”

“Maybe they just want to listen to the music, too?”

Casp inched over to the gap in the floor and peered over the edge. The man dressed like a refiner had seen better days. His blue robes were tattered and dirty, and his hair was a tangled mane. A sword hung from his belt in a scabbard, and the mere fact that it was sheathed calmed Casp considerably. The refiner was having an animated discussion with another man. From his vantage point, Casp could clearly see the other man was no refiner. In fact looked far too old to be sitting on a rooftop to begin with. He couldn’t catch the words of their conversation, but the gestures made it clear they were discussing whether or not to go in through the roof.

“Now that’s odd.” Casp muttered. Grumb gave him a quizzical look. “If they’re hiding from the Oil-men, they ain’t working with the Oil-men. But what are they after?”

“Pella.” said Grumb, simply. Casp stared, the clapped both hands to his helmet.

“The old man’s her grandfather! The one that taught her all those songs she sings for us! It’s gotta be! Oh no, they think she’s inside! We gotta warn them!”

“Okay, Casp.” Grumb said agreeably, and he jumped.

Juren crouched at the edge of the hatch, listening to his granddaughter’s voice float up from within. He wore a scowl that shadowed his face, and he looked poised to jump over.

“It’s not her.” Edgeless said, quietly.

“I know that.” Juren snapped.

“It’s just a recording. She’s probably miles from here.”

“I know that! But it means Mull got her safely to Cog at some point.”

“I know someone who might know where she is.” Edgeless said quietly. Juren turned to face him, a brow raising, and Edgeless indicated the restaurant below with a jerk of his chin. “Why don’t we go… ask them some questions?” His hand drifted to the pommel of his weapon.

Juren set his jaw, and stood. The Oil-men in the restaurant may or may not know where Pella was, or could at least tell them how they came by the recording of her voice. On the other hand, they would certainly have to execute the Oil-men after the interrogation, and the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was about to ask Edgeless if he had any other ideas when a broad movement in the Gearworks above them caught his eye. Juren grabbed Edgeless by the arm and pulled him back from the descending mechanisms. Edgeless moved with the gesture, turning to face whatever Juren was staring upward at and drawing his baton into an upward guard.

The two of them watched as the giant travelled down the jumble of metal struts, cleanly passing by the tumbling gears as he swung and dropped, swung and dropped from handhold to handhold. Jumping down the last ten feet, the giant’s boots crunched into the roof tiles, and Edgeless leveled his weapon warily. The giant wiped the oil from his hands and looked up with placid eyes. His voice rumbled like gravel.

“It’s a trap.”

Juren eyed the enormous man from foot to face, and his brows knitted. He gave a low whistle.

“The Oil-men sure have gotten bigger since I left.”

The giant’s massive head turned to regard Juren, and in a childishly hurt voice, he replied.

“I’m not the trap.”

“Well then, who are you, big fella?”

“His name’s Grumb! Please don’t hurt him, sir!” came a plaintive call from above. The three turned to look up into the Gearworks, where a scrawny, gangly man in coveralls was trying to climb down. Lacking the strength of his partner, his journey was taking considerably longer. Edgeless winced as the man’s foot slipped, and the pipe-rat found himself dangling by his arms. “I’ll… I’ll be right down! Just nobody do nothin, okay?” the man managed to hook his leg around a pipe, and he shimmied down cautiously, hopping over a few gears before finding a series of conduits he could safely use as a ladder. When the structure became too flimsy for his weight, he simply dropped into the waiting arms of the giant.

Grumb set Casp back on his shaking feet and gently brushed off some of the dust from his shoulders. Casp looked at the two men and wrung his hands in a carefully considered gesture of obeisance.

“I’m Casp, humble pipe-rat, at yer service. This guy’s Grumb, my partner. He’s a headstrong sort of fellow, don’t I know it, and I didn’t ‘spect him to jump to save – hey, you’re not a refiner at all!” Casp’s darting eyes fell on Edgeless’ baton, still held levelly at Grumb’s midriff.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re one of them edgeless, aren’t you!”

“That’s what they call me.” Edgeless rumbled through gritted teeth. He let the baton drop a few inches. “We know it’s a trap, but thank you all the same.”

“Wha-… but-… how could you tell?”

Edgeless nodded his head to the corner of the rooftop, where a pile of tarps lay. Looking closer, Casp could see the tip of a boot protruding from underneath.

“A couple of Oil-men told us.” Edgeless said, wryly. Casp hissed, anxiously.

“You killed them?”

“No, no. They’ll merely wake up with headaches that made them wish they were.” Juren assured.

“They didn’t see us before we rendered them unconcious. As long as they can’t identify us to the Palace guard, we have no problems letting them live.” Edgeless said, pointedly. Casp gulped. The cruel length of metal the edgeless was holding looked no less dangerous than the traditional curved blades the refiners usually wore.

“Grumb here, see, he just thought you… you… you might be—“ he turned to Juren, bowing slightly “—Pella’s grandfather.” The old man’s eyes flew wide, and he lunged at Casp, grabbing the pipe-rat by the buckles of his coveralls. A glint of metal caught Casp’s eyes under the old man’s cloak, and the weathered fingers that shook him were as strong as steel.

“You’ve seen Pella? Where is she? Is she all right?”

“She’s fine, she’s fine, please put me down!” Juren released Casp, who would have stumbled back over his own feet if Grumb hadn’t caught him by his collar. “When her restaurant was raided, Lady Reichardt-Brown took her in! She’s great, that ol’ gal. She ain’t never fired us, not even once.”

Edgeless cast a bemused look at Juren, who shrugged.

“Don’t look at me. I stopped being part of the nobility fifty years ago.”

“How do you know we can trust these two?”

Juren turned to Casp, who nodded encouragingly, his beady eyes pleading. Grumb simply offered an innocent smile. The steady drip of icy rainwater was making his old back ache, and he stretched slowly.

“It took us weeks to find out about this restaurant and its singer. We finally find it, coming so close, only to have her chased away by the Oil-men again. If you have any other ideas, I beg you to share them.”

Edgeless tensed, then grimaced, shouldering his baton. Casp let out a slow, whistling breath of relief, then clapped his hands together.

“We’re not far, if you can climb.”

The front door creaked open and Pella heard Mercie’s scampering feet head down the hallway. Pella sighed inwardly – Casp was gone for far too short a time to have gotten into the restaurant and back. When she heard his reedy voice greeting the servant, she was glad he changed his mind about the dangerous task. Reichardt-Brown didn’t seem to have come to the same conclusion as she set her tea down with a saucer-ratting clink.

“Casp, that was either a stellar performance or the weakest of attempts. I hope for your sake you brought Pella her trinket.”

“Ah, no ma’am,” his voice wafted from around the corner, the faintest trace of a smirk shaping the words, “but I think she’ll be happy with the find, nonetheless.” Reichardt-Brown’s lips pursed in disapproval. Pella set down her tea and stood, preparing to leave the sitting room and meet Casp at the doorway, accepting whatever he found with joyous gratitude, to save the poor pipe-rat from Reichardt-Brown’s wrath. She heard footsteps near the door, but instead of Casp, around came a black-cloaked, grey-maned figure. The gulf between her expectations of who she was going to see and who she would never see again was too vast to be crossed immediately, and it was an eternity before she managed to croak out the word.

“Grandfather?”

The old man’s face split in a wide grin, and he kneeled as Pella flung herself at him. He gathered her up in his embrace, rocking her gently as the tears travelled down his long nose. She clung to him with a single muffled sob, ignoring the press of metal between them and the other faces watching from the hallway and the sitting room.

“Oh, Pella. I didn’t know where you were.”

“I didn’t either… I was so lost.” She whispered, barely feeling the strain of her voice.

The old man looked up, looking from Reichardt-Brown to Casp to Grumb, seeing the pipe-rats in a new light as they shuffled about a little awkwardly. Grumb had pulled out a dirty, tiny handkerchief and was dabbing his eyes ineffectually.

“You look pretty found to me.”

Reichardt-Brown cleared her throat, quietly making sure her voice wasn’t about to break. She caught Casp’s gaze, and nodded slowly.

“Good man.” she murmured, and the pipe-rat beamed.

The wine and stories flowed throughout the lavish dinner Mercie prepared for them, long into the evening. The wine numbed her throat nicely, and so Pella told and retold the story of falling off Mull’s ship and making her way into the underground tunnels of Cog. Juren filled in the gaps on how Mull had come back for them, how Edgeless fought Ollrick and escaped the buffalo stampede, and how Halleck and the rest found bravely and were safely on their way home.

Reichardt-Brown had managed to get a message to old Luzzem, who showed up wearing a tatty, old suit. He swore he was simply looking for an evening away from his wife, since the Seashell Bistro was temporarily closed, but Pella nonetheless caught him smiling at her with obvious relief. He joined in telling stories, elaborating endlessly on Pella’s successes with the restaurant and of the crowds that jostled just for glimpse of her singing, all while Pella sat next to Juren, blushing modestly.

It was late when the dishes were finally cleared, and Casp, Grumb and Luzzem made their slightly tipsy goodbyes. Reichardt-Brown had insisted Juren, Pella and Edgeless stay in her guest rooms until they found a new place to live. Mercie had managed to get one of the formerly flooded guest rooms back into usable shape, and the three of them each had the finest bed they had ever known. Edgeless appeared to fall asleep even before he hit the pillow. Juren and Pella spoke late into the night, and once all the stories had been gone over once again, Juren brought up Pella’s trip to the palace.

“What did they want from me, Grandpa?” Pella asked. Her throat was feeling better, after the bit of wine and sleep-inducing amounts of rich food. She no longer had to convince herself it was healing – the evidence was obvious, even if she was a little raspy.

“I believe the Queen has gone over some of the older manuals we wrote, back when we tried to figure out how the Stringworks worked. We didn’t get far, so she probably has little to go on.” He frowned, thoughtfully.

“That Ollrick thug had Edgeless’ whistle. He seemed to think that was part of it.”

“Did he now?”

Pella nodded.

“She’s on the right track, then. We’d best move quickly.”

“So the whistle is part of it, after all?”

“No, no, it’s just the call whistle for Edgeless’ cycle.”

“I don’t understand. What’s the key to the Stringworks, then?” Pella mused, then yawned expansively. Juren smiled kindly.

“Music, dear girl.”

“Oh.” Pella said, before drifting off into a deep, deep sleep.

The smell of frying bacon woke her, and Pella stumbled bleary-eyed into the kitchen. Reichardt-Brown sat at the table with Juren, topping off his coffee as Mercie tended to breakfast on the stove. Edgeless sat opposite them, slouching slightly uncomfortably – some time in the night, his grubby robes had been cleaned and pressed and he looked like he was learning how to wear them all over again. By the door stood Casp and Grumb, their professionalism slightly dog-eared by the shared wince of a mild hangover. Reichardt-Brown was giving them orders as they vainly sipped their coffees.

“—still think you could make it to the throne room without being seen. I—oh, hello dear.”

“Hello, ma’am. Who’s making it to the throne room?”

Juren cleared his throat, self-consciously.

“We’ve come up with a plan. We need to act quickly, as Casp says there’s less Oil-men guarding your bistro.”

Casp nodded, then winced at the ill-advised gesture.

“S’right. We figure they’re ‘bout to give up on that particular trap.”

“So what’s the plan, then?”

Edgeless set his jaw, both hands holding his mug of untouched coffee.

“Casp and Grumb are going to sneak you into the palace. You’ve been to the Stringworks, so you should be able to find your way back there. Your grandfather and I are going to hit the front doors, and keep the guards busy so they won’t be on the lookout for you. We’ll keep them on the move, and we should be able to buy you…” he cast a look at Juren, who held up two fingers, “…at least twenty minutes to get into the Stringworks. Once you’re in there, lock the door behind you.”

“What? That’s crazy! You’ll be killed!”

Juren smiled sadly.

“Don’t underestimate your ol’ grandpa, kid.”

“But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do in the Stringworks! Why can’t we come up with another plan that gets you in there?”

“I don’t know how to run the Stringworks either, Pella, but I do know that I can hold off a dozen armed guards better than you.”

“But… but…”

“Pella,” said Reichardt-Brown softly, “I have contacts in the palace court. Venute has been going to the Stringworks every day for weeks. I don’t know what she does there, but she’s determined. It’s only a matter of time before she figures out whatever the secret is, and then none of your plans will ever stand a chance. Also,” she hesitated, biting her lip, “the queen threw her Vizier in the dungeon, declaring her a traitor to Cog. Venute knows you escaped, and how, and she’ll never stop hunting you.”

Pella suddenly felt cold, and sipped her coffee quietly while her mind raced with excuses, protests, and pleas. They all fell short, and she sighed bitterly.

“All right, so what’s the first step in our plan?”

“Pella, you said you saw Ollrick had my whistle?” Edgeless inquired, an edge in his tone. She nodded. Edgeless then turned to Casp, arching an eyebrow.

“You’re a pretty handy fellow with that wrench, or so the Lady Reichardt-Brown tells me. You know how to take apart a VT-2220 Landrambler two-seater?”

Casp twirled a ratchet around a finger and chuckled.

“Charger class or Heraldic class?”

“Cavalry.”

Casp set out a low whistle of appreciation.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Engine’s mudded up some. Needs a complete breakdown.”

“No problem, I can rebuild it in an hour. All’s I need a place to take’r apart and put her back together.”

Edgeless raises his other eyebrow.

“What if you were to take it apart here, and put it together somewhere else?”

“I don’t—“ Casp began, then his eyes widened in comprehension. He smirked, rubbing a grimy finger under his nose. “I can do that for ya.”

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