The Mask And The Master (Mechanized Wizardry Book 2) Read online

  The Mask And The Master

  Book Two of Mechanized Wizardry

  By Ben Rovik

  Published by Ben Rovik Books

  Copyright © Ben Rovik 2012

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  If you enjoy it, please spread the word to anyone you like! Multi-chapter samples of each of my books are available for free at benrovik.wordpress.com. Consider directing your friends or family there first, rather than emailing or sharing this copy around. Thanks!

  *****

  Table of Contents

  Maps

  Prologue

  Part One: The Voice Of The Masses

  Chapter One: New Beginnings

  Chapter Two: On The Hunt

  Chapter Three: Mister Leader

  Chapter Four: Fireside

  Chapter Five: The Pretenders Will Fall

  Chapter Six: The Feastday Hero

  Chapter Seven: Going Public

  Chapter Eight: The Golden Caravan

  Chapter Nine: Petronaut Non Grata

  Chapter Ten: The Consultant

  Chapter Eleven: At The Gates

  Chapter Twelve: Vanguard

  Chapter Thirteen: Royal Reassignment

  Chapter Fourteen: Hot Potato

  Chapter Fifteen: Last Words

  Chapter Sixteen: Cakewalk

  Chapter Seventeen: The Battle Of Two Forks

  Part Two: The Path To The Master

  Chapter One: The Road Ahead

  Chapter Two: Fort Campos

  Chapter Three: The Wounded

  Chapter Four: Greatsight

  Chapter Five: Yough’s Verdict

  Chapter Six: Two Sermons

  Chapter Seven: Post

  Chapter Eight: Borne By The Current

  Chapter Nine: Sundown

  Chapter Ten: Captives

  Chapter Eleven: The War In The Woods

  Chapter Twelve: One Cell For Another

  Chapter Thirteen: The Audience

  Chapter Fourteen: Columbine’s Army

  Chapter Fifteen: A Mouthful

  Chapter Sixteen: Collaborators

  Chapter Seventeen: Word On A Wing

  Chapter Eighteen: The Warlord’s Valley

  Chapter Nineteen: Fresh Eyes

  Chapter Twenty: The Siege And The Civics

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Other Petronaut Tales

  Sample from The Fate Of The Faithful: Book Three of Mechanized Wizardry

  Maps

  Prologue

  The cucumbers were enormous for this early in the summer. Hanah reached a gloved hand through the leaves and pulled a jade-dark gourd off the vine, marveling at the sight of it. The soil was warm here, a kilometer removed from the keep, and the rains had been kind so far. She placed the cucumber gently atop the others in the bushel and wiped away the sweat on her face. Her silver bangs were wet against her forehead, peeking out from underneath her wide-brimmed hat. She tucked them back out of sight and leaned in closer to the bush.

  “Dame Hanah,” the soldier began again. She raised a hand. His boots shuffled in the dirt as he returned to attention, a few meters behind her.

  “I am aware, yeoman,” she said in a slow, soft voice, “that our visitors are anxious to know what we will do next. I’m aware that the garrison, yourself included, is anxious to know what we will do next. Would you believe that I’m just as anxious as all of you are for our master to make a decision?”

  Through the disciplined silence behind her, it was clear the young yeoman did not. Hanah stifled a smile as she gently dislodged a pair of summer beetles from a well-chewed leaf. “Believe it or not, I’m actually quite perturbed,” she murmured, watching the beetles fly.

  “Ma’am.” The young man struggled for the proper words for his message. How brittle he must think I am, she thought, amused. He was so solicitous in his desire to avoid giving offense that it bordered on the offensive. That was, if she’d been inclined to take offense at anything anymore. After everything else she’d experienced in life, the haphazard words of a soldier weren’t likely to move her one way or the other.

  He finally spoke. “The visitors from Svargath simply want some reassurance. The stewards are having difficulty, uh, quieting them, in the hall. And, uh— since you seem to be at liberty, your presence could—”

  “Do you know, I never thought these would grow?” She looked over her shoulder at him, and he stiffened. He had a pointed jaw and close-cropped black hair, and his leathers fit him well. Hanah took him in with her hazel eyes, letting a hand rest on the mostly-full bushel of cucumbers. “I didn’t plant a single seed, that first year,” she whispered, remembering. “It was all I could do to pull out the rocks, till the earth, spread the nourishing minerals and let them sink in. For two years after that, only a handful of plants survived the weather or the pests long enough to put out flowers, let alone crops. But every year, I persevered. And now? Well, yeoman—”

  There was a rush of air, and the young soldier barely got his hand to his face in time to catch the long green projectile. He looked past the vegetable to see Hanah lowering her throwing arm, a twinkle in her eye. “I hope you like cucumbers,” she said.

  He nodded his thanks, eyes darting this way and that. “Ma’am? Will you, uh—”

  “I will not come to see our visitors from Svargath, because I have nothing to say to them. I will not come to see them because every visit they make to our keep increases the chance of detection and endangers us all. I will not come to see them because they were not invited to come, and I don’t wish to encourage bad manners. Finally, I will not come see them, because I am busy with the cucumbers.

  “But, yeoman,” Dame Hanah said, straightening herself up, “since you’re so eager to please, you may say this to our friends from the east. As soon as our master has made a decision regarding the options I have proposed, they will be the first to know.”

  “Ma’am, uh—to paraphrase—they’re finding it difficult to stay patient.”

  “We failed to kill the Princess of Delia last week,” Hanah sighed, pulling off her work gloves. She massaged the arthritic joints of her right hand, wincing as her thumbs kneaded her bones. “I don’t need to tell you that our master took that news rather hard.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” the young man said quietly, his eyes flicking to the ground. Cicadas buzzed in the trees nearby, their calls rising and falling in raspy waves.

  “The cause continues, yeoman,” Hanah said, her voice low and firm. “And there are many fruitful paths still open to us—especially if we remain patient. As soon as our master has made a decision regarding the options I have proposed, they will be the first to know.”

  “Ma’am.” The young man bowed, recognizing the dismissal in her tone. He turned on his heel and began the walk along the beaten track of grass back to the keep, and the small knot of angry foreigners who would continue to make his day unpleasant. Hanah watched him go with her hands clasped together at her waist. It was hard for the young to be patient, especially in the face of struggle and setback. But she knew, with certainty that went right down to her old bones, that their plans would bear fruit if they persevered.

  She looked down at the heaping bushel, and the long rows of ripe cucumbers yet to be picked throughout the garden. Her eyes unfocused as she imagined the spires of Delia, the gleaming white walls of the royal palace, and a little girl sitting on a throne ten sizes too big for her. Sometimes, the question isn’t whether or not the crops will grow, she thought grimly, but whether you’re ready to harvest the things you’ve sown.

  With a soft
grunt as she stooped over the bushes again, Hanah went back to work.

  Part One

  The Voice of the Masses

  “Your words are as a storm

  Where lightning strikes the highest place

  And flood-tides dredge the lows.

  None of those who hear are spared the pain...”

  A Hundred Days of Water, Duronico, 780.

  Chapter One

  New Beginnings

  Horace Lundin was not crying.

  Obviously not, he scoffed, setting the great hatbox-shaped canister on his new workbench. The metal disks inside clattered against each other like cheap cymbals, noisy despite the padding. If I were crying, it would be because there were some reason to cry. And because there’s not, then, obviously, I’m not crying. It’s not like I’m the kind of person who has emotional responses at the drop of a hat without any—

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” Lundin said, swiping his eyes fiercely with the back of his hand. He turned to the tall, dark-skinned man and cleared his throat. “Just a few more packages to bring in,” he said, tapping the canister with forced heartiness.

  The man reached out and touched Lundin’s arm absently, his brown fingers giving a gentle squeeze. “Glad you’re joining us, Horace,” he said with a smile, of sorts. Lundin had seen that smile from almost everyone today; warm, but perfunctory, as if ‘make Horace Lundin feel welcome’ was just one more item on a mental to-do list. One look at the other man’s flickering eyes convinced Lundin he was already thinking about his next task long before the smile faded from his face.

  “You’re getting one of the biggest spaces here,” the man said, removing his hand. Lundin brushed his hands against his stomach as he looked around, shaking his head in disbelief all over again. The immaculate workroom assigned to him, just one tech out of dozens here, was nearly the size of the Recon squad’s entire second-floor workshop, which the four of them had shared—

  Had shared. Lundin swallowed, closing down that line of thought. “Lucky me,” he said.

  The Board of Governors has reached a verdict on reassignment, in light of the new royal priorities and the testimony presented today by—

  “—need a hand getting your workspace arranged, just call out. Otherwise, see you in the morning,” the man was saying, heading for the door.

  Lundin blinked as the memory flashed past his eyes. He shook himself back to the present and raised a hand in farewell. “Thanks... Martin?”

  “Martext,” the other man corrected flatly. Martext Goolsby gave his long black hair a little toss, placing an errant lock back behind his ear where it belonged, and adjusted his glasses. Everybody here had glasses, Lundin had noticed, in the same squished trapezoidal frames. Why would they choose to order lenses in such an odd, narrow shape? The frames had to cost a fortune, and for optometry purposes, getting the appropriate curvature on a thin trapezoid of glass sounded like a lens crafter’s nightmare. Vertical peripheral vision would be curtailed too, relative to normal circular lenses. Odd-looking; more expensive; less functional; and yet everybody has them. Lundin’s heart sank as he gestured self-effacingly at the well-groomed tech. Spheres help me, I work with trendy people.

  “Horace!” a jovial voice rang out. Lundin turned just as a hand started pawing his shoulder. There was, apparently, another entrance to his workroom, and his new superior had just used it to sneak up on him. Lundin tried not to squirm as Dame Dionne beamed into his face, her eyes disappearing behind her high, puffy cheeks (and her trapezoidal glasses). She slapped him on the back as the big finish to her full-contact welcome, and he gasped; he was sure he’d find the indentations from her rings still visible in his flesh when he got home later tonight. “Our newest technician,” Dionne crowed proudly. “Martext, have you met Horace?”

  “Oh yes, Dame Dionne. What a pleasure.”

  “An absolute pleasure,” she agreed. “We’re all just thrilled to have you joining the Civics. Are you looking forward to shaking things up for your new squad?”

  “Ha ha,” Lundin said, baring his teeth in a smile. Nothing else came to mind.

  “Ha ha!” Dionne jumped in, saving the moment with a full-throated laugh. She pressed her fingertips against Lundin’s arm. Does everybody touch everybody here? Lundin thought, trying again to stand still. Do I have to touch people too?

  “Well, we couldn’t be happier that you’re working with us now. Listen, Horace,” Dionne began, slipping an arm across his shoulders and turning him away from the workbench. Martext swept out the door, his long hair swishing across his back as he made a beeline for the next task on his agenda. Dame Dionne clenched her fingers around Lundin’s far bicep and pressed her arm along the length of his back, giving him a one-armed hug. Her tone became low and serious. “How are you?”

  He cleared his throat. “Sorry?”

  “I know that hearing with the Board of Governors last week must have been hard for you.”

  When the heir to the Throne takes personal interest in a project, changes must be made—

  Lundin shrugged, his shoulders tight against his body from the force of her hug. “No, no. It’s all professional. It’s the best decision.”

  “How long were you with the Recon squad?”

  “Going on three years.”

  Dionne frowned and nodded with profound understanding. “You get attached to people in three years.”

  —and, in light of the interpersonal and disciplinary issues raised in testimony, it is clear that reassignment would be advisable even without the royal—

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Lundin said, eyes downcast.

  “You went through a lot together, especially in the last month. From LaMontina’s death on sounds like it was a whirlwind for you.”

  “We worked together, but, you know, that’s what Petronauts are here to do. To work. Doesn’t really matter where, does it?”

  She looked at him. “Does it?”

  —are therefore in the happy position to solve two problems with one single action; the reassignment of junior technician Horace Lundin from the Reconnaissance squad to the Civil Improvement and Development squad, effective—

  “Nope,” Lundin shook his head. His eyes definitely were not watering.

  Dame Dionne gently released him and stood in front of him, forcing him to look at her. She took off her trapezoidal glasses in a calm, easy motion and brushed a wisp of blonde hair out of her face with the back of her hand. The only people who take off their glasses for emphasis are people who only wear glasses so they can take them off for emphasis, Lundin thought uncharitably. Her vision didn’t seem remotely affected as her blue eyes crinkled away into a smile again.

  “I’m glad you’re looking at this so professionally,” she said. “I know some ‘nauts have unhealthy attitudes about us here on the Civic squad because we don’t ever go into the field.”

  “No,” Lundin protested.

  “It’s all right, Horace! I hear the jokes too.” She looked over her shoulder, then grinned wickedly. “What’s the war-cry of a Civic rushing into battle?”

  Lundin knew exactly what the war-cry of a Civic rushing into battle was, but tilted his head inquisitively. Dame Dionne raised an imaginary ream of papers over her head and put on a fearsome face. “Fill these out in triplicate!” she roared.

  She laughed. He laughed. Please leave, he tried desperately to project into her mind as she touched his chest with her fingers, throwing her head back with laughter. Finally, the waves of her mirth died down, and he cooled down his own forced guffaws at just the right rate to trail off a beat later than she did.

  “Don’t let any of the other squads know,” she said, wiping her eyes and putting her glasses back on, “but I’d hazard a guess that Civics have more fun than any other ‘nauts in Delia.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Horace nodded, swallowing.

  “And I want you to have fun here, Horace. I know you’re a professional, and that you’ll be getting a
ttention from the Regents themselves from time to time on your magic project. After all, Petronauts are here to work,” she said with a mock-serious face. “But I hope that once you’ve been with us for a while, you won’t see your fellow Civics just as people to work with.” She put both hands on his upper arms and squeezed again. He looked down into her blue eyes, wide and shining beneath the frames. “You’ll see us as your family,” she whispered.

  Please leave!

  “Thanks, Dame Dionne, thanks, I feel—I feel so welcome. Really,” Lundin said, one hand reaching up to awkwardly pat her on the wrist.

  “Oh, good!” she said, brightly. She let go of his arms and turned to go. “If you need any help setting up today, don’t hesitate to ask. Can you be settled in by tomorrow morning? I’d love to bring your team in for a full briefing as soon as possible so you can put us in the loop on this wizardry project of yours.”

  “Yes. Wonderful. I’ll look forward to putting you in the loop.”

  She stopped in the doorway, one hand high on the frame, and looked back at him. “I’ll look forward to you putting me in the loop,” Dame Dionne said, a smile playing across the edges of her mouth. As she walked away, her manicured fingers lingered on the doorframe, trailing behind her body until the hand, too, went out of sight.

  Lundin stared after her. He leaned back against the high work table, wracking his brain for loop-based double entendres he might have unwittingly stumbled into. His brain came up empty. “I don’t understand Civics,” he whispered aloud.

  “You’ll get used to us,” Martext said, standing in the other doorway with another box from the Recon workshop. Lundin leapt up.

  “Thank you. I’m, uh—just put it there, I’ll get the rest. Thank you, Martext.”

  “Horace,” the man said, quietly, inclining his head. He dusted off his hands and glided out of the room again.

  Lundin looked up to the high ceiling as beams of cheery sunlight shone down through the skylights. He looked out across the long array of drills and lathes and machining equipment Dame Dionne had assigned to his exclusive use on his high-profile royal project. He ran his palm over the smooth, freshly sanded worktable in front of him, and thought back to the pockmarked slabs of wood they’d called tables at the old workshop, and the cluttered wall of well-worn tools, and the musty old shutters that were such a pain to open the place stayed shady as a cave almost year-round, and the rickety stools they’d sat on as they shared beers at the end of work. Sir Mathias, his huge hands enveloping his stein, shaking his head at Lundin and grinning; Samanthi, snorting happily into her mug before she hurled invective at him; and Sir Kelley—