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Authors: Adrian Tchaikovsky
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way. She half scrambled, half flew to one of the openings and looked back, gesturing for them to follow. ‘And the rest of you, back to your work,’ the woman rasped. ‘You think this changes anything? You think this is anything to gawp at? Forget these strangers, they will be gone as soon as they came. They are nothing .’
Che had hoped that there would be some groundswell of resistance to this dismissive attitude, but already the onlookers were skulking away, vanishing back to their holes or else sloping off towards the gleaming fires of the forges. She tried to catch the eyes of some of her kin, to establish that connection they must surely feel with her, but they would not look at her – indeed they barely looked at each other.
She was halfway after the Moth woman, almost wilting herself under that imperious glare, when Thalric said, ‘What about him? He’s coming too?’
One of the crowd had not simply gone home. Che looked over and saw a vast figure, a Mole Cricket bigger even than his fellows, each of his arms greater than Che’s whole body, and reaching nearly to his knees. He wore a cap of hide and chitin, and the hammer thrust into a loop at his belt must have weighed as much as an ordinary man.
‘Go,’ the Moth told him, but he shook his head.
‘I’ll hear this, for my people.’
‘Forge-Iron, go. This is a fiction, a nothing.’
He strode over to her, his shadow eclipsing the entire opening that she stood in. ‘Let us be peaceable about this,’ he said mildly, though even then Che felt the rumble of his voice through the soles of her feet. For a moment he and the Moth were frozen, locking wills, and Che felt the woman’s Art sally forth to put the Mole Cricket in his place, but he was immovable, like the rock itself, and at last she sagged and nodded and vanished inside.
The huge man waited until the travellers had followed her in before bringing up the rear.
‘Forge-Iron?’ Che enquired, looking up into that dark face, meeting his curious gaze.
‘Darmeyr Forge-Iron,’ he confirmed.
‘Cheerwell Maker,’ she offered. He accepted the name as though it was something of great value.
Beyond that gaping opening was a chamber barely of sufficient size to fit them all, even with Forge-Iron in the very doorway, and two narrower tunnels twisted off into the rock, canting downwards towards a faint but constant sound of tapping and digging.
Is the whole place a mine? Che wondered. Do they just sleep in the galleries and chambers, like vagabonds?
‘Where are you from?’ the Moth woman demanded, without ceremony.
Che found that the others were looking to her to speak. ‘I am Cheerwell Maker. I come from . . .’ She wanted to say up , but of course the precise direction of the sunlit world she knew was a matter of magical theory rather than pointing. ‘Outside,’ she finished. ‘From under the sun.’
The Moth stared at her bleakly. ‘Liar.’
‘It’s true,’ Messel insisted, and she hissed at him.
‘Renegade,’ she spat. ‘Shirker and abandoner, what would you know? They are fugitives from some other hold, some mine or forge whose toil they could not stand.’
‘Look at them,’ murmured Darmeyr. ‘They bear weapons, and they wear . . . and their kinden.’
‘Their very tread on the stone is different,’ Messel agreed.
‘Listen to me,’ Che insisted. ‘We come from outside here, and we must return there.’
The Moth laughed bitterly. ‘Of course. Fly there then, outsiders. Or step there through the cracks in the rock. Or perhaps you will ride the White Death there. Surely you can return there as easily as you came.’
‘We came by magic,’ Che said, matter-of-factly. ‘There was a seal that held this place closed, and it was broken . . .’ She stopped. The Moth had both hands up, fingers crooked as though trying to cram her words back down her throat.
‘There is no magic,’ declared the Moth-kinden with absolute assurance.
In the silence that followed,
Che had hoped that there would be some groundswell of resistance to this dismissive attitude, but already the onlookers were skulking away, vanishing back to their holes or else sloping off towards the gleaming fires of the forges. She tried to catch the eyes of some of her kin, to establish that connection they must surely feel with her, but they would not look at her – indeed they barely looked at each other.
She was halfway after the Moth woman, almost wilting herself under that imperious glare, when Thalric said, ‘What about him? He’s coming too?’
One of the crowd had not simply gone home. Che looked over and saw a vast figure, a Mole Cricket bigger even than his fellows, each of his arms greater than Che’s whole body, and reaching nearly to his knees. He wore a cap of hide and chitin, and the hammer thrust into a loop at his belt must have weighed as much as an ordinary man.
‘Go,’ the Moth told him, but he shook his head.
‘I’ll hear this, for my people.’
‘Forge-Iron, go. This is a fiction, a nothing.’
He strode over to her, his shadow eclipsing the entire opening that she stood in. ‘Let us be peaceable about this,’ he said mildly, though even then Che felt the rumble of his voice through the soles of her feet. For a moment he and the Moth were frozen, locking wills, and Che felt the woman’s Art sally forth to put the Mole Cricket in his place, but he was immovable, like the rock itself, and at last she sagged and nodded and vanished inside.
The huge man waited until the travellers had followed her in before bringing up the rear.
‘Forge-Iron?’ Che enquired, looking up into that dark face, meeting his curious gaze.
‘Darmeyr Forge-Iron,’ he confirmed.
‘Cheerwell Maker,’ she offered. He accepted the name as though it was something of great value.
Beyond that gaping opening was a chamber barely of sufficient size to fit them all, even with Forge-Iron in the very doorway, and two narrower tunnels twisted off into the rock, canting downwards towards a faint but constant sound of tapping and digging.
Is the whole place a mine? Che wondered. Do they just sleep in the galleries and chambers, like vagabonds?
‘Where are you from?’ the Moth woman demanded, without ceremony.
Che found that the others were looking to her to speak. ‘I am Cheerwell Maker. I come from . . .’ She wanted to say up , but of course the precise direction of the sunlit world she knew was a matter of magical theory rather than pointing. ‘Outside,’ she finished. ‘From under the sun.’
The Moth stared at her bleakly. ‘Liar.’
‘It’s true,’ Messel insisted, and she hissed at him.
‘Renegade,’ she spat. ‘Shirker and abandoner, what would you know? They are fugitives from some other hold, some mine or forge whose toil they could not stand.’
‘Look at them,’ murmured Darmeyr. ‘They bear weapons, and they wear . . . and their kinden.’
‘Their very tread on the stone is different,’ Messel agreed.
‘Listen to me,’ Che insisted. ‘We come from outside here, and we must return there.’
The Moth laughed bitterly. ‘Of course. Fly there then, outsiders. Or step there through the cracks in the rock. Or perhaps you will ride the White Death there. Surely you can return there as easily as you came.’
‘We came by magic,’ Che said, matter-of-factly. ‘There was a seal that held this place closed, and it was broken . . .’ She stopped. The Moth had both hands up, fingers crooked as though trying to cram her words back down her throat.
‘There is no magic,’ declared the Moth-kinden with absolute assurance.
In the silence that followed,
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