Page 261 of The Cradle of Ice
Frell stepped away.
Small wings opened on the beetle’s back, revealing a crystal core that swirled with a mix of oil so black it looked like a pinch of the void between stars and a silver so bright it stung to look at. With each revolution of that mixture, the black grew and the silver faded. Tykhan had told him that when it turned solid black, it would explode with the force of a dozen cannons. This beetle and the other three—coordinating in some arcane fashion—would create a simultaneous blast, with enough force to ignite the Hammer.
Frell leaned closer, trying to understand this ta’wyn implement—another bit of craftsmanship from Tykhan’s past, from the Forsaken Ages. Frell stared up at the drum, remembering how the Madyss Hammer had its roots in that same age.
Why did history only preserve that which was most destructive?
“You!” a voice barked behind him. “What are you doing down here?”
Startled, Frell spun around. The Rhysians were supposed to have cleared this hold. A crewman—a ship’s drudge, from his oil-stained bibs and ashy face—came forward with a huge iron turnscrew in hand, a tool made for tightening the large bolts of the gasbag riggings.
Frell straightened. “Ship’s alchymist second order. Completing a final inspection. Why?”
“Ah, that’s all right then, innit?”
Frell nodded, waiting for the man to pass.
He pointed his nose high. “Heard half a bell ago they lopped that traitor prince’s arm right off.”
Frell flinched. “What?”
“You never heard?” He pantomimed with his turnscrew with a feigned strike to his left arm. “Burnt it black af’erwards. Serves the sodder right. That’s what I say.”
Frell stared up fearfully, taking a step forward. “Is he still alive?”
The crewman shrugged, then tipped sideways, looking past Frell. “Say, what’s that there?”
Still worried for Kanthe, he stepped to block the drudge’s growing curiosity. He heard the whisper of soft sandals on wood as the other Rhysians returned. He pushed the crewman back, fearing the others would kill this simple, innocent man—not that the drudge wouldn’t die if they were successful here, along with so many others. Still, maybe it helped assuage Frell’s guilt if he could spare this man a bit more life.
“This is black alchymies,” Frell warned direly. “You should not be here. That’s why the hold is empty.”
“Ack.” He looked around worriedly. “Then I best be off.”
Frell guided him away, back toward a shadowed doorway. The man disappeared as the three sisters returned.
“Who were you talking to?” one of them asked.
“No one,” Frell fumbled. “Just warning off a drudge before he got any closer.”
The sister looked suspicious, stepping toward the door, but another waved her off as a ship’s bell sounded the lateness of the night. “Tykhan should be headed back to the lampree. We have no time to spare.”
The sister nodded her grudging agreement.
They set off for their ship.
Frell glanced at the levels of scaffolding below, down to the curve of the hull’s bottom. “Were you able to jam those doors?” he asked.
One of the sisters gave him a scolding look for questioning their competence.
Frell cast his gaze higher, picturing the many hundreds who made this floating city their home. Still, he understood the necessity.
Better these hundreds should die than the thousands if this bomb reaches Kysalimri.
They hurried out of the cavernous hold and down to an abandoned section of bilge. Saekl stepped into view at the sound of their approach. She uncovered a lantern to guide them the last of the way to the small hole cut through the hull by the lampree’s ring of jagged teeth. Those sharp edges protruded into bilge, as did the hooked legs that latched the ship to the lower hull.
“Inside,” Saekl hissed, responding to the sound of boots pounding from the other direction.
Frell ducked and squirmed through a hole the size of a wine barrel’s lid. His robe’s edge caught on one of those sharp teeth. He pictured the ring of them spinning and burring this hole and yanked himself free.
