Page 4 of Elvenbred

“Enemies.” Her eyes went from the drawings and calculations, then to the window and its view of the forest beyond the cleared verge that was kept well burned. Her voice took on a sardonic edge. “That covers a lot of ground. I lose track … our enemies the monsters, our enemies the other cities, our enemies on the Council, our enemies the Kings that you are defying, our enemies who used to be colleagues, or our enemies the scrubs that escaped from us … ‘our’ enemies are everywhere. Why must you make it so?”

He raised his hand to stop her, but she pressed on.

“We are at war with this world,” she said aloud. “We are at war not just with the Predators, but everything else in this world along with every person in it … and the world is much larger than we are.”

He felt his temper slip … it was worse than she knew, worse than she could be allowed to know. He felt the pressure then, the secrets, the secret knowing.

He pointed first at her, and then himself, his voice raised in hard anger. He felt the pulse of pain in his temple, the headache coming on. “We came from nothing … nothing. Fought and scratched, and kicked to earn our bread, and this place. Us. You. Me. Us …. No high birth, and every morsel earned. And the moment we slip, it’s gone. Like that. I’ve had it happen to me once already, when Aubergine fell. It can happen again.” He gave her a hard snap of the fingers, as though summoning a servant. “No more lord and lady. No more anything. Maybe not even alive. And it’s high time you remembered that.”

“I was happy, then,” she replied. He could see the hint of tears in her eyes. “Maybe I was just a botanist. But I was a good one.” She paused and drew herself up. He could see her lower lip tremble. “But lord and lady be too damned important to you ….” Her tone turned icy. “Then next time, don’t put ‘us’ at hazard by taking stupid risks. You put my head on the block by using my data. Didn’t say a single word about it. Now, if you die, where does that leave me? Neither of us has a birth title. Your only importance lies in the fact that you are second to none in the mastery of Gates.”

“Only importance?” His temper slipped, and he dropped into the highborn speech of the King’s Court. “Have a care at how thee bespeaks me, woman, for though I am a lord appointed, and not of birth, I am still thy lord. Forget not thy place.”

She went white, then red, ready with a retort, then swallowed it. “Then, prithee, lord,” she said, mocking his tones, her voice a controlled fury. “Have I thy leave to depart?”

“Yes. Go,” he replied, his own voice tight with tension.

She withdrew, careful not to turn her head away, and stepping backwards as though in the king’s own presence. When she reached the door to the narrow, steep step, she slammed it behind her with enough force to rattle the windows. He felt quite certain the servants had heard it on the ground below.

He stretched his arms back over his shoulders to try and release some of the tension, then let out an oath and gave the side table holding the tea tray a good kick. It flew back against the wall, shattering the cup, and spilling tea on the floor. He caught its scent then. Mint. From her garden. A peace offering after last night’s quarrel. And now, they had just had another.

Females. Unpredictable, flighty, shallow-minded.

He heard his name called from down below, and went to the balcony.

“Yes?” he replied.

“They’re getting ready to shift the broken Machina, and the foreman said to wait until you’d inspected it.”

He gave a quick nod. “I’ll be down.”

He pulled a cape over his light shirt, drew on half-boots, and belted on his sword of office before descending the tower. At the bottom of the stair he paused for a moment to catch his breath. The lord needed to look the part. No rushing about, out of breath. He stood in the hall that connected the Tower to the working portion of the estate, and gathered his composure.

He stepped into the afternoon sun, calm and in command. The guards and Household staff might rush about, but he must appear calm and in control … whether true or not. The Tower was not far from the city wall, and just a short walk across the courtyard. He crossed the courtyard grass briskly, then sprinted up the steps to the battlement, taking them two at a time and making a show of his vigor, while hiding the sudden shortness of breath. Too much time at the work-table, not enough exercise.

Arriving at the top of the wall, he met the foreman. “Show me.”

The older elf, his forearms scarred with the burns from his forge and trade, nodded and replied. “This way mi’lor.” His lower-class accent blurred the words.

Haldeen followed the foreman to the destroyed Machina. Number Seventeen. He knelt to study its inner workings. “Any idea what went wrong?”

“No, mi’lor.” The foreman shrugged. “Figure something faulted in the feed system. Complex jiggery right there, and if even a bit of copper slagged up against the feed door an’ kept it from closing … then when the furnace kicked off ….” He trailed off and made a spreading gesture with his hands.

“You warned me,” Lord Haldeen replied. He felt his title slip just the tiniest bit as he looked at the wreckage. At least he hadn’t presented his new designs to the king as a fait accompli yet.

“Mi’lor, there will be an inquest,” the foreman continued, “required anytime a Manipulator dies.”

“Yes,” Haldeen replied, his voice carefully neutral. He suspected as much when the Manipulator had been slow in dropping control. “Who was it?”

“Lindoril,” the foreman replied. “The stutterer from the last class. Guardsman said she took on the whole kit by herself. Cycled up the whole twenty, though she could only get twelve out of the sheds. Didn’t wait for any of the other duty Manipulators. Given how fast the thing came on, she might have saved the city.” The foreman looked over at the battlement’s low tower where she had died. “Pushed way too far. When Seventeen blew, she was already at maximum, and had no place to send the magic she was feeding it. Healer says a stroke killed her instantly. Never felt a thing.”

Haldeen kept his face carefully neutral. His designs, turned into metal and more powerful weapons, had saved the city and driven off the monster. One young Manipulator had taken on more than she could handle, his Machina had blown, and in a moment he went from acclaim to an investigation. He stopped that thought and reversed it … there was something there, perhaps a way out. The Manipulator had been overextended, dangerously so … perhaps he could work with that, and get ahead of this thing. She was new. She was inexperienced. She took on more than she could ever hope to handle. She was female, and females are prone to let emotion overcome them.

“I’ll need to prepare my statement.” Haldeen turned away, thinking furiously, and no longer concerned with the dead and dying. Back to his tower and his office. He needed to be near the Farspeaker in case—well, it was inevitable—the king called with a demand to know what happened.

He worked to compose his speech as he descended the battlement stair and started across the courtyard to return to his tower. He stopped then and looked up at it, shading his eyes a bit. The short run up to the city walls had left him wheezy. He was in no state to make that climb again. He turned instead and went to his personal suite, where he had his offices and close to where the Farspeaker had been installed. He could relax there, and compose his speech in better comfort.

His fears cooled as he worked to perfect his speech. After all, this was just the loss of a single, new-design Machina and a newly-trained Manipulator. And a female at that!