This is the last chance we'll get to rest for a while, so make the most of it.
Chapter 13
Hidden Things
At last, the thrum of Dignity's engines through her hooves. A momentary quivering as the skirt fully inflated, then everything was stable. Millie patted the control panel. “I've missed you, old girl.” She glanced out the new cockpit window. “Yeah, it's only been a day, and you've actually been here all the time. I'm needy, alright?”
She took the control column in her hoof and nosed the craft onto the gallium lake. From there, she headed a little way along, then back across Pinion Beach and onto the desert proper, heading towards Ilmarinen.
It had been a hectic couple of days, that was for sure. And she was still carrying the burden of a captured pirate. But she had to admit running across Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo had been invigorating. Fun, even. A welcome distraction from her usual thoughts.
But – Gregor.
A pirate, a bigot, and petulant. He alternated between sulking and a sort of cautious friendliness, which, she suspected, he couldn't help. Millie kept on sifting through her options. Take him back to Ilmarinen. Hand him in to get executed. Let him free, give him a chance to kill and steal. Keep him here with her and be his guard. Take him all the way back to Omphalos, and hand him in to Aquileona.
The last choice, for all the effort it would take and all the weeks it would take from her, was starting to look like an attractive one.
Soon, though, she stopped worrying about it. The desert landscape, the flow of the air cushion below, the handling of the control column became everything. Even the engines were relaxing once you got used to them.
The things Millie loved, truly loved, numbered two: Working on her hovercraft and driving her hovercraft. Those were the things she could lose herself in, almost numinous periods where she could sometimes even let herself think the world was okay. Better in the long term than sex, and more effective than therapy.
Even so, there were limits. After a few hours in the cockpit, some time after midday, her legs were aching and she had to rest. She settled Dignity on a flattish area of dark grey volcanic sand and turned off the engines. They were already a third of the way to Ilmarinen. And by now, Sweetie Belle should have passed through the city and be on her way back to Omphalos and Equestria.
Perhaps, she thought as she walked into the main cabin, Gregor would be in a talkative mood. And with that notion, all the worries came flooding back. Millie closed her eyes and took a deep breath to, if not clear them, then at least tidy them up. Then she went through into the rear cabin where Gregor was sitting, watching the door and waiting for her to come in.
“Ship broken again?”
“Nah. Just wanted a break.”
“Ah,” said Gregor. His beak moved silently. “Shit.” He looked down at the floor, then back up at her. “You got any more beer?”
“Afraid not. I can fix you up a cuppa, if you want.”
Gregor relented, so Millie went a got them each some tea and, after a rummaging about in the cupboard, some oats with water.
“It'd be easier to just let me starve,” said Gregor when they were settled. “You know that right?”
“Aye. 'Cause takin' you to Ilmarinen to get executed is killin' you just the same, so it's a tad disingenuous for me to do owt to keep you alive, right? T'thought had occurred. Well, do as you please. If you don't want it, don't eat it.”
Gregor sipped his tea, grimaced, sipped again.
“I'm thinkin' you're pretty well-known? I mean, I've got bugger all for proper evidence here, but t'folks at Ilmarinen are still gonna know you're a pirate. At least it seems you think so.”
“Well-known. Yeah, you could say that.”
“Why did you come to Amaranth, Gregor? Pirates ain't usually so … self-righteous.”
“Privateers. Not pirates, we're privateers.”
That got Millie's attention. She stared at him. “Aquileona has a privateer fleet in Amaranth?”
“Of course.”
“But our treaty – or all that legal wranglin' what passes for a treaty – keeps the state out.”
Gregor gave a contemptuous snort. “And you think we'd just sit by while the Equestrians got one over on us?”
Millie had encountered that sentiment before, back home. She didn't trouble herself trying to argue. “Is Flavian's lot behind this?”
“Of course.”
Millie sat back and considered this.
Between Amaranth and Equestria, there was a small region of land that had been contested by both. It was notable by being entirely useless, lacking any economic or strategic value. The eventual agreement between the two superpowers was that it belonged to neither, and could be claimed by neither.
Then the Funnel appeared, leading to Amaranth. Right in the middle of the dead ground.
The obvious result, put forth by the Equestrian princesses, was to explore and investigate the region together.
Enter Minister Flavian, a youngish rising star in the Aquileonan Parliament, a lifelong politician, a skilled orator and genius rhetorician. No, he argued. The geometry of the Funnel meant that in some sense off of Amaranth was contained within the unowned region, and thus should itself, and in its entirety, count as unowned. Don't let us be lulled by the soft and manipulative overtures of the ponies. Don't forget that for all the emphasis on harmony, they have no notion of individual rights or democracy.
No, Flavian said, this is an eminently sensible decision. Or the agreement does not prevent private citizens from going to Amaranth – only the appendages of the state. Holding the line, holding back both governments will allow the intrepid individuals who cross the border to succeed, or fail, entirely on their own merits.
Flavian's arguments had won support from the chancellor, a large majority of parliament, and a smaller majority of the populace. Aquileona held to the old agreement with ferocity, and thus renounced its chance to go into Amaranth.
Except it hadn't: It was sending in privateers. Pilfer the salvage from those intrepid individuals who don't share our interests, and take them back to the fatherland. In hindsight, Millie realised it was obvious. Flavian was a genius, but very few trusted him as far as they could throw him. Why wouldn't he go back on his principles, especially when he could justify it as helping Aquileona?
Millie wondered what the future held for Amaranth, and for these endless open deserts she could spend the rest of her life gallivanting around in. And that made her realise that if Sweetie Belle was right about this stuff going on behind the scenes, perhaps Flavian's antics wouldn't matter at all.
Gregor was watching her, she realised.
Well, the end would come when it came, and that would be that. She put it out of her as best she could and brought her attention back to Gregor.
“There's still summat missin',” she said. “You're a patriot, I can see that, but why come to a place you hate? In't there anywhere else you could serve Aquileona?”
“Sure,” said Gregor. “But I've had enough of the interrogation. Especially if you're not going to share anything about yourself.”
“Like what?”
“Lone donkey, running off to the desert. Everyone here had a story,” said Gregor.
“And what makes you think mine is any more interestin' than any of the others?”
“You're here, they're not, and it only seems fair that you share a little.”
“Maybe later,” said Millie. “It's time to hit the road again.”
“Of course,” said Gregor, something of a smirk in the way he looked at her.
Millie stood and stretched. “Push your bowl over here if you don't want it.”
“I think I'll keep hold of it.” He slid over his empty cup. “There you go.”
Millie shrugged, and gathered up the cutlery. At the door to the cabin, she set down the cutlery and, without turning back to him, said, “I'm taking you back to Aquileona. See how things work out for you there.”
She left before he had a chance to reply.
Voices like bubbling tar or shrapnel scraping against shrapnel. Listen to them long enough, and they faded: A background sensation, like the touch of your hooves against the ground or the weight of your tongue in your mouth. It was easy not to notice –
Sweetie Belle opened her eyes and looked around the little cabin. Scootaloo and Tom, rendered as shadowy outlines in the needles of sunlight that came through holes in bulkhead. The vaguely sketched corners of boxes, including the one they'd been smuggled aboard in. She closed her eyes again.
It was easy not to notice when the voices changed. How much they had changed.
But sitting here, thinking about it, listening, it was obvious. A bundle of nonsense syllables suddenly linked up, became meaningful. Became a word, like glory or destiny or pinnacle – except, somehow, in a different language which she shouldn't know.
Most of what the daemons said still meant nothing to her – but these islands of meaning came constantly. Maybe once every twenty or thirty seconds. The hand on a dial slipping closer to the red zone of permanent insanity.
Later, the hum of the engines changed tenor, and Sweetie Belle felt the airship begin to slow. Without speaking, Scootaloo gestured for her and Tom to get into the box.
Waiting in the cramped darkness while docking rattled them about and clanked at the walls. The clanks of Scootaloo hiding in her own box; a period of silence; then the door to the the chamber opening and muffled voices. These too went away, then came the sound of Scootaloo's box opening, and soon after they were in motion. Sweetie Belle leant back against the metal wall as best she could and listened to the daemons again as they spoke over the trundling pallet wheels.
When the top of the box opened, the first thing Sweetie Belle saw was a skeletal tower blurred against the dazzling blue sky. She blinked a few times to clear her vision. as Tom and Scootaloo helped her out. Her hooves banged against a textured steel walkway, and something sour and metallic in the air clawed at her nostrils.
Scootaloo had chosen a quiet alcove to let them out. There was no one else Sweetie Belle could see. Around her, everything was industrial: A web of girders and pipes and cables and walkways all around, centred around the tower and dense enough to obscure a view of the desert below. Some way off, she could see cranes, and beyond them the bulbous blue cap of an airship envelope. Turning around, more industry, and more towers – another four like the one she was standing beside.
“Are we supposed to be here?” Tom asked.
Scootaloo shrugged. “What are they gonna do if they find us? Ship us back to Ilmarinen? That's exactly what we want.”
Tom murmured something in the back of his throat, but didn't reply.
“Same plan as before,” said Scootaloo. “Stick by me, and we'll look for the fastest way outta here.”
As Scootaloo took them on the search for another airship, Sweetie Belle got a better idea of where they had arrived.
The landscape far below below was no longer desert. It looked like a mire, but devoid of life and in all the wrong colours. The surface was a shade of bright, almost luminescent blue, sometimes turning to aqua, and streaked through in places with reddish-browns and metallic greys. There was no way you could mistake it for water, though: From the way it quivered and rippled in the wind, or when bubbles lazily rose to the surface and popped, it looked much thicker, like quicksand. Tangles of rusted wire and other detritus floated about like some alien vegetation.
The chemical mines themselves were five hexagonal platforms, sitting standing in the mire on six fat cylindrical legs, rust-red but stained blue close to the surface. Each was maybe a hundred metres across, set half that above the mire, and packed with machinery, centred around a tower. Broad walkway bridges were slung across the gulfs between each platform, stayed by cables like the middle of a suspension bridge.
Every platform had spaces for two airships, one either side. A maximum of ten, though only six were docked at the moment.
Going down the walkways from platform to platform, from airship to airship, they saw few personnel, mostly ponies and minotaurs, most of whom ignored them. There were ten times as many chevaloids, being operated in teams, carrying equipment or just standing to attention.
“Are the chevaloids yours?” Sweetie Belle asked.
“Trust your lot to pick such a self-centred term for them,” said Saffron. “Yes, they are. They're pretty versatile if you know how to operate them.”
“Can you teach me?”
“Yes, but I'm not going to.”
“What about this place? What was it in your time?
“It's hard to tell. It looks like we're sitting on top of copper sulphate. There might have been chemical plants here. Or maybe it was just a waste storage site.”
They had checked out two airships with no luck, and had just stepped off a bridge in search of a third.
From behind her: “Sweetie Belle?”
She recognised that voice. Behind her stood a tall, slender griffon with brown plumage and red painted talons. Lucille!
Half a dozen things went through Sweetie Belle's mind, and she scrabbled to catch them. Relief to see a friend. But Lucille wasn't a friend. And hadn't she betrayed Sweetie Belle? Or had she? Or –
“What in the world are you caught up in?” asked Lucille.
“You know her?” interjected Scootaloo.
Lucille glanced at her. “From Ilmarinen. I like those wings, by the way. Impressive salvage.” She turned back Sweetie Belle. “You know a pony turned up to buy that statue of yours? A real shady type. Then, next thing I know, I'm getting an ansible message from Grit saying he's being chased by pirates and you'd left the ship.” She leant back and looked like she was trying to regain her composure. She succeeded. “I was afraid,” she finished in a more measured tone, “you'd gone and got yourself killed without making me any money.”
Scootaloo stepped forward, putting herself between them. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Oh, I am sorry. Where are my manners? The name's Lucille. I met Sweetie Belle when her captain was trying to sell something. And you are?” She offered a talon.
After a moment's hesitation, Scootaloo shook it and introduced herself. Tom did the same.
Sweetie Belle tried to calm her thoughts. Okay, she thought, if Lucille had sold her out, would she be acting so friendly? Would she have told her about selling the statue?
Scootaloo was about to say something else, but Sweetie Belle made a motion to hush her. Somehow, it worked.
“Who tried to buy the statue?” she asked. “Why did you say he was shady?”
“She,” said Lucille. “Went by the name of Blueberry Pancake.”
Scootaloo caught Sweetie Belle's eye.
“Everything about her screamed weird,” Lucille went on. “First, I was expecting a griffon, considering, y'know, how the call for these statues was spread among griffon networks. Then she wanted to buy the statue, even though it was dark. And … she wanted to find Hinny's Revenge.”
“Did you tell her?”
“Of course not. I'd never sell out Gritstone. Not for less than half a million bits, anyway. I promised her I'd ask after him, and I did … but by that point she'd run off somewhere.”
So, she was being open about Blueberry.
“Look, uh, Lucille,” said Scootaloo. “We need to go talk for a bit. Are you gonna be here long?”
“You go, do whatever you need to. I'll be here for a few hours yet. I'm on my way back to the ship, so just drop by when you're ready. I'll tell the guard to look out for you. It's the Dulcet, just over there.” And, to Sweetie Belle: “We need a proper catch up. Let's have some coffee.”
“We'll be half an hour,” said Scootaloo. “An hour, tops.”
“See you then,” said Lucille.
Scootaloo led them a little way down towards another side of the platform, where they could be alone. Below, the bright blue mire shimmered in the twin lights of sun and Scar.
“She's our way out,” said Sweetie Belle as soon as they stopped. “She can take us to Ilmarinen.”
“You sure?
“She knows me.”
“Is that enough? She was happy to tell Blueberry about all that statue stuff.”
“She didn't know it would affect us, did she? The griffon pirates were already chasing me. Lucille didn't tell them anything.”
“Okay,” said Scootaloo. “Let's assume she's trustworthy. Why would she take us to Ilmarinen? Just because she's your friend?”
“She thinks I'm a good salvor. She wants to hire me.”
Tom cleared his throat. “You can't really escape if you're in her employ, can you?”
Sweetie Belle stared at him. Truth be told, she hadn't thought of that. And then she realised –
“There's something I can trade. When I was in the skull, Saffron said there was some piece of qilin technology here.”
“Like what?” said Scootaloo
“I don't know. We couldn't see exactly, just that it was magical.” Sweetie Belle turned to Scootaloo, feeling eager to brandish this revelation. “See? Going down there was useful! It might just save us.”
Scootaloo gave her a hard look. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Maybe it was, but that doesn't make it smart. So you can trade Lucille this qilin thing, and she'll take us to Ilmarinen? Well …” She closed her eyes and put a hoof against her forehead. “It's worth a try, I guess. But only after we've checked out the rest of these airships, okay?”
“Sure,” said Sweetie Belle.
“Uh.” Tom raised his paw. “There's something else. What do we tell her? Lucille, well, she seems a bit mercenary. She might not have sold you out yet, but if she hears how much Blueberry wants to get hold of you …”
That, too, was something that hadn't occurred to Sweetie Belle.
While she was thinking about it, Scootaloo spoke: “We lie to her. Or tell her it's a secret. I'll work something out, don't worry.”
Blueberry Pancake had found her first meeting with Captain Gaius more difficult than expected. She was getting used to dealing with the expectation that she was a pony rather than a griffon, but this was a special case.
Gaius, when he met her at Skulltown docks, had first reacted with disbelief. Then the sense that she had somehow betrayed him. After she had assured him that, while a pony, she was not a citizen of Equestria, and that the mysterious S. had chosen to deal with griffons rather than ponies because they were more effective, and that the money was still on the table, the captain grudgingly relented.
“Strange that a place like this,” he had commented, looking around the bleached bone the town sat on, “should be chosen by ponies – and only ponies – as a place to live. In my experience, they are terrified by the inevitably of death, and yet here they are upon a reminder of it.”
Whether this had been an attempt to needle her or just xenophobia, Blueberry wasn't sure. Even so, for all his racism and overwrought gruffness, she found she liked Gaius more than Sombra, and idly considered making him a hierophant as a reward when all this was over.
The ships he bought – one large silvery cigar and two smaller, more manoeuvrable scouts – had no gangplanks. A sort of refusal to bow to the needs of the wingless. So she and Cannons had suffered the indignity of being carried aboard; Sorghum followed on his own wingpower. Now she sat in the dingy captain's office of the lead ship, flanked by her bodyguards, waiting for Gaius to finish whatever he was doing.
A small porthole gave her a view of the side of the skull's cheek, a mottled off-white cliff. The cushion she sat on was threadbare, and the floor was uncarpeted and scuffed. In the air sat some sort of vaguely greasy texture, and Blueberry could almost feel her mane getting dirtier by the second. Did this place even have decent showers?
She was inspecting the polish of her hooves when the door opened and Gaius stepped through with two of his own underlings. He pushed it closed with a wing, in a manner far more gentle than you might expect from his appearance.
Dead-eyed gaze fixed on her. “We're ready to leave,” he said in a voice like grinding stone.
She smiled up at him. “Wonderful! Thank you so much for this.”
“You sure she's at the chemical mines?”
“Yes. They stayed here last night, so there's only one ship they could've left on. We're only a few hours behind them.”
“I hope so,” muttered Gaius. He stared out the window. “This little bitch cost me a great deal. My ship, dozens of my crew. I want to make sure her, and her mongrel friend, get what they deserve.”
“When we catch them, the diamond dog it yours,” Blueberry lied. “And the mare too, when we're done with her. How's that for fair?”
Gaius glanced at her briefly before going back to the window. Utterly humourless.
“Why are you here?” he said at last. “You and your bodyguards aren't the whole operation, so I wonder what made you come out here by yourselves. One might think it reeks of desperation.”
Blueberry gave him a broad smile. “You're very astute,” she said, and after a a mock conspiratorial look from side to side, she motioned him closed. “You want to hear a secret?”
For a moment she though Gaius wasn't going to move. Then he sighed and leaned in.
“I want a front-row seat,” she said. “This is my project, you see, and as much S. prefers us to hide in the shadows, I want to get this mare myself.”
Did he buy it? She couldn't tell. It didn't matter so long as he stayed with her long enough to get to Sweetie Belle.
“She's a tricky one,” continued Blueberry. “She may hit back, and she may give us a bloody nose. You know that, don't you? Of course you do. You're bright enough. We'll need a plan.”
“We go in a scout,” said Gaius, “and leave the two other ships flanking the facility to cut off any ship trying to leave. I have fifteen gunships to help with that. Then we send in as many teams as we need to find her. If need be, we can threaten the facility itself to make them hand her over.”
“Very smart,” said Blueberry. “One more thing – do you have any chevaloids?”
“Yes.” Gaius clicked his beak. “Why?”
She leaned in and grinned at him. “She's tricky, but so am I. Chevaloids can be much more useful than you think. Give me a few, and I'll make them fight for us.”
At that, the captain seemed to almost smile. “Any other tricks you got?”
Well, there were the five lengths of inhibitor thread hidden in Blueberry's luggage. And the golem spell she'd been perfecting since her last encounter with Sombra.
“The chevaloids should be plenty,” she said.
Sweetie Belle settled on a plump, comfortable cushion alongside Scootaloo and Tom. Across from them, on the opposite side of a polished metal desk, sat Lucille. Everyone had a little steel cup “Your choice,” Lucille had explained, “is bad coffee with liqueur, or bad coffee without.” The sweet tang of liqueur, Sweetie Belle found, nearly masked the rancid aftertaste.
“So what happened with Hinny's Revenge?” she asked.
“He got back to Ilmarinen with no salvage and a bunch of researchers he'd saved. And not too happy about it, either. All your fault, apparently.” Lucille laughed to herself. “When Grit thinks you're reckless, you know something's up.”
“Oh, right,” said Sweetie Belle. She found she didn't care as much about Gritstone's opinion as she thought she might.
“I think it was mostly bluster, though. He could never say he was worried about your safety, so having a go about you was the next best thing. Now he's planning a new mission.”
“What happened to the researchers?” said Tom.
“They're also still on Ilmarinen, I think,” said Lucille. “They've mailed whoever funded the expedition, but there's no ansible link, so it'll take a while.” She turned back to Sweetie Belle. “And what about you? Your side of the story seems much more exciting than mine.”
Sweetie Belle told her about how they'd found the researchers, how she'd been searching for Scootaloo (this earned her a small snort from her subject), how she'd been captured by pirates who also wanted Scootaloo, how the intervention of the young aelewyrms and Millie had allowed her to escape, and how meeting the elder aelewyrm had saved them.
Then she said she thought there was a connection between the statue she'd found for Gritstone, something about the civilisation that had once lived in Amaranth – and that Skulltown formed the next piece in the puzzle.
“And what puzzle was that?” interrupted Lucille.
Sweetie Belle leaned in. “I can't say. Not yet, anyway. I don't want to give away any of my secrets. Salvor's pride, you know?”
Silence hung between them while Lucille's flintgrey eyes looked steadily into her eyes.
“Fair enough,” she said. “Go on.”
“The thing is,” said Sweetie Belle, “now I need to go back to Ilmarinen as quickly as possible. I can't go all the way back to Skulltown and then wait for a train. I need to leave soon.”
“And you want me to be your ferry service?” said Lucille.
Sweetie Belle gave her a slight smile. “Don't worry. I'm not asking for charity. I have something to give in return.”
“And what's that?”
“Information.” Sweetie Belle leaned forward dramatically. “I know that somewhere under this mine is an advanced piece of salvage. Possibly something no-one had ever seen before.”
Lucille's eyes widened a fraction. “Well,” she said, “that would certainly be worth passage back to Ilmarinen.” She gave a smile that was broad and just a little bit vicious. “If I hadn't already found the salvage.” She began to laugh.
Sweetie Belle sat back. “Oh,” she said, in a voice that felt like it came out an octave higher than she's intended. “I … in that case, I –”
“And I hope I'm not hurting your salvor's pride to guess that you need to get to Ilmarinen so fast because you're still being chased.”
Sweetie Belle stared at her. She tried to say something, but no words came. Then came the sound of Scootaloo standing and the rippling sussuration of her wings opening. “If you think you –”
“Don't be an idiot,” she Lucille. “I'm not going to sell you out. If I was, I wouldn't tell you, would I?” She lifted her left foreleg and tapped a talon against the metal surface of the table. “Now sit down. This is my ship, and I'd like a little decorum.”
Sweetie Belle turned to her and gave her a look: Come on. Scootaloo snorted, but retracted her wings and settled down.
Lucille went on: “Still, that was a good try. I thought I was the only one who knew about the artefact under the mine.” This time her smile was much friendlier. “The only reason I haven't left yet is that I can't figure out how to disconnect it.”
Aha! “Maybe I could help,” Sweetie Belle said.
“And how would you do that?”
“I've picked up a few things, even if I am being chased. I might know what it is – then I could pay for passage, and you'd be able to get out of here. It couldn't hurt to let me have a look, right?”
Scootaloo nudged Sweetie Belle. “We don't have time to play around looking at artefacts.”
“What else are we gonna do? Just wait around for someone else to decide what happens to us?” Looking over at Scootaloo, Sweetie Belle realised there was an edge of worry alongside the pragmatism. “Don't worry,” she said. “I'll be careful.”
Talons clicking together. “Alright,” said Lucille in a tone that indicated this was a charitable act, “you can have a go at the artefact.”
After her victory at the young instrumentalist competition, Sweetie Belle, feeling again like she could bend the world to her will, headed down to Southern Aquileona to meet up with Scootaloo at her new job with Bounding Minotaur Adventure Tours.
In the final stretch of a six-hour airship journey from Aquileona, she rehearsed her reasonable excuse for being in Aquileona at all as the rich green carpet of treetops slid by below. They followed a broad pewter-coloured river that carved a deep valley in the rainforest for a kilometre or so, then pulled leftwards towards a small greybrick town in a cleared area.
The cabin doors opened with a shuddering rattle, and Sweetie Belle felt herself enveloped in sweet-smelling treacle-thick air. She looked around the landing pad trying to get her bearings while the rest of the passengers – a couple dozen griffons, three donkeys, and one other pony – walked ahead of her or took immediately to the sky.
“Hey, filly!”
She'd be so occupied, she hadn't noticed Scootaloo glide over from the ticket office. They hugged and smiled at one another.
“Come on,” said Scootaloo. “I'll show you the dorm. Our latest lot just left this morning, and we have a free day.”
As they walked down the street, Scootaloo talked about the town, the rainforest, the activities – ziplining, kayaking, caving – and the various customers, fully half of whom seemed to come from Manehatten. Sweetie Belle was happy to let her speak, only interjecting occasionally: “Okay”, “Sure”, “Really?” Scootaloo was looking healthier and happier than she had for years: Muscles more defined, feathers fluffier, mane still untidy, constantly animated, and even occasionally pronking to emphasise something particularly exciting.
Conversation moved on. Scootaloo asked how the young instrumentalist award went, and Sweetie Belle gave her a dramatic account of how she'd won, skimming over all the boring and unimportant bits.
“That's awesome,” said Scootaloo, grinning at her. “Well done! Ah, here it is.”
The dorm's pale grey brickwork glittered faintly in the sunlight. Inside, it was air-conditioned and smelt strongly of eucalyptus and faintly of stale sweat. Sweetie Belle took a moment in front of the hallway's mirror to rearrange her curls, then followed Scootaloo through a door into what looked like a kitchen.
Adrenaline Rush with sitting at the table with a glass of some lurid pink fruit juice.
He jumped up to greet them as soon as they came in: “Sweetie Belle! Hi there! How are you doing?” His hoofshake left her pastern aching; she rubbed it as she said hello back. “Damn, it's been a while, hasn't it? Scoots said you were coming, and I just had to drop by. Thank you so much for sending her this way.”
“Oh,” said Sweetie Belle. “No problem.”
“Really, she's been such a help. She's awesome at this!”
“Hush, you,” said Scootaloo, and pushed him on the shoulder. “Actually, no. Keep going.”
Rush gave her a lopsided smile that, to Sweetie Belle, seemed over-friendly. “I will! See, a couple of weeks ago we were taking a group of adventurers from Manehatten – actually one of them had this amazing Pronx accent, and she – but never mind that for now. Anyway, we were taking them to a new facility where …”
Sweetie Belle let herself tune out a little during Rush's anecdote; she did notice, though that at this point he put his hoof on Scootaloo's shoulder and let it rest there right through his anecdote and into the next one about accents.
Later, when the heat outside had receded to bearable levels, they took a little airship out to see one of the ziplines. Standing on a wooden platform, Sweetie Belle looked out over the treetops to a ravine in the distance and tried to distract herself from how much Rush and Scootaloo seemed to be talking to each other rather than her, and how much they touched each other. She started to get the feeling that she was incidental to the whole trip, that if she hadn't come, they'd have done al this anyway.
When they returned to the little town, Rush poured them all another glass of pink juice and told Sweetie Belle that he and Scootaloo needed to sort out some stuff in the dorms for the next group of adventurers, and was it okay if she entertained herself for a while?
“Sure,” said Sweetie Belle.
“Awesome. Thank you” said Rush. “Now, if you want my advice, there's a good bar just down that way.” He smiled. “Sorry about this. I know it's so rude to do this, but if we don't get things ready –”
“No, no. It's fine. It's just for an hour, right?”
“Ah, you're a champion! Yeah. As soon as we're done, we'll come and find you.”
At the bar – an open-fronted place with five or six chattering, smkoing griffon patrons – she tried to order a pear cider, learned it wasn't available, and settled for some more juice. This she started at without drinking while the patrons and barman all talked together about Aquileonan politicans she'd never heard of.
She'd introduced them! She was the one who'd found Rush, pointed Scootaloo in his direction, made all this possible in the first place. Scootaloo had been her friend a lot longer than either of them had known Rush. And yet here they were, sidelining her! She turned from her table and glared out the door. She started to drink, then stopped. Its sweetness seemed at that moment revolting.
Instead, she just stared at it and hoped she'd be able to go home soon.
In the weak and pale green light of the cage lift's single lamp, the shaft outside was reduced to fragments of material and great shadows which recoiled as they approached from below and bloomed again as they retreated. Closer, but still rendered in smudges of green and expanses of black, her companions: Scootaloo, Lucille, and one of the mine's workers. Tom had remained above because the lift could take no more than four – and because the top of the cage was too low for him.
Smells changing from acrid to sweet to sharp to cloying, but all chemical. Against a background of a low, continuous rumbling from some unseen machinery came an assortments of bangs, rumbles, grinding, clattering. The winch above them whined.
The daemons were speaking to her, still. For whatever reason, it was harder to evade the clumps of meaning they offered down here. To distract herself, she talked to Saffron:
“What do you think it is?”
“I don't know until I see it, do I? And even then, I might not be able to identify it.” Saffron sighed. “Are you doing this to get a ride, or to play investigator?”
“Can't I do both?”
The lift shuddered and came to halt with a great clank. Ahead of them now stretched a corridor roughly hewn from bedrock and lit only slightly better than the lift with rows of oil lamps. A unicorn waiting there unlatched the lift door from them and swung it open.
“I've made a deal with the miners,” Lucille explained as she led them down the corridor. “When we finally get this thing out, I sell it and we split the profit. Good incentive for them not to tell anyone else.”
The rock ended, and the corridor changed: A firm, smooth pathway under their hooves them, straight walls, flat ceiling, all of some silvery-blue metal, scuffed but mostly intact – the inside of some ancient ship. It returned the sound of their hoofsteps and breathing in a clear but muted echo. The corridor curved gently to the right and, maybe fifty metres along, they came to an arched door. Through there, against the far wall of a large room, sat the artefact. Or, rather, artefacts.
Four identical structures sat in a row. They looked either like upright mechanical insects or sparse metallic ribcages. Each had a cylindrical spine with three pairs of ribs extending forwards. From the ribs hung dozens of matte black ribbons covered in dry, wrinkled octopus suckers. Other things sprouted from behind the spine and draped among the ribbons – some were transparent, and reminded her of medical tubing. In the dull light the assembly cast baroque and spiky shadows like the silhouettes of impossible monsters.
There was more stuff on the floor – masses of cables or pipes, connected to a few flattened beads that looked like they were made of coloured glass or gemstone. More cables and structural members leading burrowing into the wall behind.
Supposing she was meant to be the expert, but not really wanting to, Sweetie Belle edged up towards the apparatus.
“We don't know how deep it goes,” explained Lucille. “And we can't cut any of those cables. Physically, I mean. Ten minutes with an acetylene torch did nothing.”
Sweetie Belle nodded. “What is it?”
For a moment it seemed like Saffron wasn't going to respond. Then, in a low voice, she murmured, “An execution chamber. It's not from my time, but I saw one of these things in a museum, and we learned about the operational theory in our studies. It doesn't just kill, you see. It uses the victim's death to build up a thaumic potential, to power spells.”
What was there to say for that? For all the advanced technology, it sounded almost like cannibalism. Turning your citizens into resources.
“How do we disconnect it?” she asked at last.
“There should be a system to unlock it. If we're lucky. Feel inside one of those cables with your aura.”
It felt, in a twisted way, like running your hoof against polished smooth ice. The cable offered no resistance – in fact, it almost dragged her aura down its length until, somehow, she was reaching twenty or thirty feet inside the guts of the ship, and feeling every dent, every turn, every imperfection inside the cable.
The sensation was such a shock that she pulled back her aura and dampened her horn as quickly as she could. And only barely did she avoid crying out.
“Thaumic conductor,” said Saffron. “Somewhere inside you should be be able to feel a joint in the cable where you can unlock it.
“You mean I have to go in again?”
“Yes. Don't worry, I'll show you what to do when you reach it.”
Closing her eyes and sighing silently, Sweetie Belle pushed her aura into the cable again. It was slippery, but easier to manage this time. She followed it deeper, feeling her way along the inside, until she came up against some sort of structure a good way it. It was hard to tell what it looked like by magical touch, but she could feel something vaguely cylindrical, various edges …
“This is it,” said Saffron. “Seems like a standard design. Here.”
Sweetie Belle was getting worrying used to having information dumped wholesale into her mind like that. She twisted to cable in the way Saffron had told her, and felt the whole length come loose.
That left two more to do. She set to work on the second cable. “We're giving them an execution device,” she said. To save our own skins.”
“And what? You don't have to tell them what it is.”
“I mean … it's dangerous, right? What if they figure it out?” The second cable released; she went over to the third.
“Right, because before they uncovered this there was no way anyone in Amaranth could harm another, right?”
“It just doesn't feel right.” She unlocked the third cable anyway. Saffron had gone silent, so Sweetie Belle turned to Lucille. “It's done,” she said. “You can just pull the cables out the wall now.” She pulled one a few metres out to demonstrate, then left the rest of the task to the others.
“Do you know what it does?” asked Lucille.
“No idea,” said Sweetie Belle. She glanced round, then added: “The cables transmit unicorn magic. Maybe they're more valuable than the rest of it.”
“Maybe. Well, anyway, thank you for the help. I'll take you and your friends back to Ilmarinen. I'll even pay you – enough for passage back to Omphalos.
Sweetie Belle gave her a sweet smile. “Thank you. When do we leave?”
“Just give me a couple of hours to get this sorted with the miners, then we'll be off.”