“Looks like the snow’s going to stick,” one of the men across from them muttered. “Might be smarter to head back, Tall.”
Alonnen shook his head. “This meeting is too important. If things get too tough for traveling back, we’ll just use the bolt-holes in Heiastowne.” Next to him, Rexei snorted. The sound was almost lost under the rumbling of the motorcart picking up speed as they reached a straight stretch, but he heard it. “Something amuses you, Longshanks?”
“You’re not laughing at his nickname, are you?” the other fellow asked her. His face wasn’t easily seen, now that they were away from the lights around the dam and its many outbuildings, but his tone was thick with disapproval.
“What? No,” Rexei denied. “Though I guess it’s ironic, you calling him ‘Tall’ when you’re a full head taller. No, I was . . . well, that’s what I called my tenement in town. My ‘bolt-hole,’” she explained awkwardly. “I just found it funny for a moment.”
“Is it a good bolt-hole?” Alonnen asked, curious.
“On a Server’s pay? Apprentice grade?” she asked, brows quirking skeptically under her borrowed felt cap. The motorcart trundled around a corner, forcing her to reach up and tug the cap farther down over her ears in the face of the increasing wind. “It’s a one-room hole on the fourth floor, with an external refreshing room. The only advantage it has is that it’s in the middle of a six-floor building, and that means I got shared heat from the rooms to either side, above and below. Your brother demanded that I clear out, so there’s not even a set of blankets left. Coal for the hearth, yes, but nothing else to keep warm, so I hope your own ‘bolt-hole’ is better off than mine right now.”
The three men across from her exchanged looks and chuckled. The young woman on the other side of Alonnen groaned. “Oh, gears . . . you are not dragging me to Big Momma’s for a ‘bolt-hole.’ I’d rather walk all the way back through an ice storm.”
“Big Mom . . . ? Oh.” Clearing her throat, Rexei realized who, or rather, what the other lass referenced. Big Momma’s was short for Big Momma Bertha’s Brothel.
Home of the Happy Whores, she mocked silently, rolling her eyes at the establishment’s motto. Posing as a young man had given her a broader education—in theory—than she probably would have learned if she’d posed as a young woman. Though at least the local Whores Guild was egalitarian in that there were rumors of male guildmembers working in Big Momma’s establishment, too, not just females.
Out loud, she said, “You can always share my bolt-hole. A bucket of coal is bound to be safer for keeping warm than whatever might be offered at Big Momma’s.”
“It won’t get that bad,” Alonnen countered firmly. “At least, not down in the flats. The cloud cover isn’t that thick, and it’s thinning out on the trailing edge. The mountains will get the worst of it, but the guilds always clear the road up to the dam. There are too many shipments going back and forth every single day not to scrape the roads.”
That made Rexei think. “Tallnose . . .”
“Yes?” he asked, holding both women a little more closely as the motorcart skidded a little on a bit of ice. These carts need some sort of safety rope system, so we don’t get flung off the benches . . .
“The priests were the ones ordering all the fighting against our neighbors, right?” she asked, though she didn’t wait for confirmation. “Even though the militia received the war machines and munitions, it was by Mekha’s will that they tried attacking the borders.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So . . . with Mekha gone, do the Steelworks at the Heias Dam need to keep producing all those parts for war machines?” she asked. “I know there’s a chance the other lands will try to swoop in and claim chunks of Mekhana now that we’re Patronless. But do we really want the priests or the militia still controlling everything?”
“Lad’s got a point,” one of the other two men muttered. All three on the bench across from Gabria, Alonnen, and Rexei were there to be bodyguards for the Guild Master, but they were clearly smart as well as muscled. “Leftenant’s alright, but the captain’s another matter. The Hammer of Heiastowne is strict when it comes to upholding the law, but what if he gets it into his head to make the laws? I heard the leftenant declared anyone making trouble would be dragged off to the quarries.”
“That’s just a rumor,” the third man stated.
Rexei shook her head. “No, that’s what he threatened. I was there. Captain’s orders, a month’s work per hour’s trouble.”
“That’s exactly why we need to have all the guild heads meet at the Consulate,” Alonnen asserted. “Up until yesterday, Mekha demanded, the priests ordered, the militia enforced, and we all had to obey. But not anymore.”
He poked out his thumb sideways. So did the others, though Rexei was the last to move; since the thumb he poked out was the left one, it meant Springreaver’s cap-covered head hid the initial action from her view. Alonnen gave her far arm a little squeeze with his free hand.
“That does not mean, however, that we’re going to let lawlessness take its place,” Alonnen cautioned them. “That’s what this meeting is for.”
A gust of wind swirled around the side of the trundling motorcart, sending more snowflakes in through the open sides of the driver’s bench and a few in through the open back. The very front had an angled glass wall shielding the guider and his passengers from most of the wind, and a pair of clever sweepers that scraped the snow from the panes when a lever was pulled, and the sidewalls of the cargo section had glazed walls, too, but not the doorways by the front bench nor the very back of the vessel. Alonnen grimaced and shifted his right hand off Rexei’s shoulder, swiping at some of the crystals as they smacked into his face and tried to melt on his cheek.
Tugging his scarf a little higher, he switched topics. “We need to start talking with the Caravaners about making these motorcarts more weatherproof. Motorhorses, I can see why they can’t be fully enclosed, but these things could be. And should be.”
From the enthusiastic nods of the others as they huddled together for warmth against the swirling snow and wind, they agreed.
SEVEN
Torven Shel Von wished he had not been seated at the archbishop’s right hand. The dining hall had two hearths, one at each end of the long table and both with warm-glowing coals doing their best to heat the space, but there was a draft at his back that pushed half the heat away. At least the food was reasonably good and the wine not bad, if well watered. Allowing mages to get inebriated was rarely wise.
Still, it was better than the fare found in most inns and taverns, thanks to one of the priests who actively enjoyed cooking. The apprentices roped into assisting him had grumbled, but with all the servants kicked out, no one of lower status had been left to help in the temple kitchen. Torven found it amusing that the apprentices who had complained the most were the ones being fed the thick glop, half stew and half porridge, which had been earmarked for the former prisoners.
He reached for the thigh of the roasted pheasant quarter he had been given for a third course, ready to remove the tender meat. The conversations around him revolved around his lengthy lessons in the exact wording needed for oathbinding demons into obedience. From the gossip, Torven had proved to be a fair, if stern teacher. A few of the novices had ended up with reddened hands from being slapped for their poorly presented oaths, but the elder priests hadn’t objected to his use of an Aian-style ruler smacking. Plucking at a bit of still juicy meat, he wondered if he’d been too light on them. Demons rarely played fair with honest mistakes.