Cogs in Time Volume Three (The Steamworks Series Book 3) Page 9

  “What do you plan to do?” he asked. His green eyes flashed in the shadows beneath the massive pillar that jutted from the bay not ten feet from the docks. “What's the request?”

  “Here, I brought it.” I tugged the wrinkled roll of paper from the back of my dress and earned another smirk. It vanished however, and his eyes grew serious again when I unrolled the brittle paper and tilted it to catch the sunlight.

  “It's half done? It looks like they want a very detailed map of Sky Harbour.” He traced the outline of our island with a filthy finger. “Why did your Pa not finish it?”

  “Look at the date,” I blinked as the stiff wind watered my eyes again. I couldn't bring myself to meet his bright eyes and see the understanding dawn, see the sadness that would be forever dimmed with panic. He had as much right to the pain of that date as I did.

  His breathing shifted, tightened, and the fragile paper crinkled in his fist.

  Silence ate at us, not an uncomfortable one, but one filled with sad memories. The feelings washed over us like the tide, swayed back and forth, until only our strained breathing in the bitter wind was our company.

  His mother had died that day too. Our mothers had been best friends, had laughed and worked together at the laundries on the far shore of the bay. The unthinkable had happened that day, one thing that is now a constant nibble of fear for all of us. The eastern most Sky Train pillar had collapsed, landing atop the washhouse and killing all the women inside.

  Without looking, I knew Marin was fighting the urge to turn and look at the crumbled stone blocks and bent metal bars that still stuck half in and out of the water. The townsmen had cleared the land of the rubble, tossing it into the sea in anger to let it rust and crumble with the tides.

  “Marin . . . that half that's not finished is the East side,” I exhaled and glanced up just as he did too. Our eyes caught and held, twin pools of pain, his green and mine gray.

  “I'll help you,” Marin reached out a shaking hand and tugged on a wayward brown curl, dragging it free from my cheek. His eyes slipped past me, and his crooked smile faded.

  “What? What is it?” I twisted to look, but Marin gripped my upper arms again, halting me before I could see what had caught his attention. I frowned up at him, confused, and the sea green sparkle dimmed when they turned back to me.

  “Let's go, now.” Marin dropped one hand from my arm and adjusted the satchel slung over his shoulder until it was perfectly hidden behind him. I swallowed. That satchel was as familiar as Marin was. He'd had it since he was a boy, and we'd snuck much in it over the years. Toads, flowers, seashells, fish.

  “Hurry,” I breathed and shoved his arm, pushing him into motion. He spun on his heel and dragged me by a threadbare sleeve to the edge of the warped and swaying dock. The jump from dock to shore wasn't much, but it was far too much for my tight, laced up, frilly dress. “Catch me. I can't jump in this darned dress!”

  Without pausing, Marin leaped off the dock and down onto the damp, pebbly sand, spun and reached up for me. I fell into his arms, and he spun us around in a blur of blue lace and ruffles before setting me on my feet. Everything tilted, and I gasped as his warmth vanished, replaced by the cold sea wind. Wordlessly, we broke into a run, side by side, like old times.

  “I have to get Pa's Mapmaking stuff, Marin,” I wheezed as I climbed a low dune behind him, my dress damp and sandy, and hem held high over my ankles as sand sifted into my boots. He nodded, unable to speak from the rough climb and turned to skirt the dune ridge before dropping behind it. It was a familiar route, one we'd used over the years to get into town without being seen by our fathers.

  He panted. “Hurry, you'd better change too. We'd need to cross rough patches of land.”

  I nodded and a tumble of salt stiffened curls bounced into my face. My nose itched, but I didn't dare scratch it and waste more time. I broke away from Marin and crept onto the bay side path that was teeming with citizens in their starched petticoats and pipe curls, with goggles and top hats on nearly every head.

  “Don't forget your goggles silly!” Marin's voice reached me just as the wall of conversations drowned it out. I grimaced and quietly slid into the hustle and bustle. A quick prayer to the Moon was answered, as no one seemed to notice the out of breath, wind tossed, hatless, goggleless waif in the patched, hand-me-down dress.

  I reached home in record time, red faced from more than the wind and sun.

  “Goggles, goggles, come on where are—” I jerked all the drawers in the battered desk open and fumbled through the contents. Ink wells, blank scraps of paper, old hairpins, and an extra corset string. No goggles. “Bother!”

  I turned my attention to my clothes. Marin was right, mapping was a dirty job, and a tightly laced dress was not only impractical, it was dangerous. I stripped, flung the wad of blue fabric onto the bed, and crept to Pa's trunk in my chemise and pantalets. Inside was a pair of old trousers, worn woolen and mud brown, but they were smallish for Pa, so perhaps they'd been his as a boy, and, as was custom, he had saved them for a son. The one he'd never had.

  I stuffed my feet into them, grateful that they were still big enough on me to get over the clunky boots and ruffled pantalets. I fastened them and cinched the spare corset string through the belt holes with a grin. So far so good. I dug further and resurfaced with a dark red shirt made from a pair of old long johns. Lordy.

  “Shut it, Callia, it doesn't matter.” I flung it on, not bothering to unbutton the unbecoming row of buttons that marched down the front. It was warm, thick, and fit well enough when I rolled up the sleeves several turns and tucked it into the trousers.

  Something glinted in the trunk, half buried beneath an embarrassing pile of Pa's underwear.

  “Ha!” I dragged the dusty goggles free of the dark trunk and pulled them on. They settled like an old friend about my head and over my eyes, instantly turning the world into a mottled swirl. A quick dust off with a sleeve fixed that.

  Now, for Pa's tools. I was thankfully allowed to touch them as Pa's apprentice, so I felt no guilt about sliding the utility belt full of chalks, pens, pencils and rolls of blank paper from under the pile of discarded maps on the table. Pa still snored away, deaf to me. I wrapped the belt around my skinny hips, jammed the half-finished map inside it, and bolted for the still open door. Marin would be waiting at our usual spot.

  Too late, I forgot to see just how bad my hair was.

  Dangit.

  Apparently, it was really bad, judging from the barely concealed smirk quirking the corners of Marin's lips up. I glared at him and sank into a crouch in the shadows of the Clock Tower.

  “May I?” Marin asked. He snorted and feigned ignorance of my glare. He plucked the goggles from my head and combed long brown fingers through the untamable mess that was my hair. I pushed his hands away and corralled the stubborn brown curls into a knot at the nape of my neck, but with no tie and no free hands, I was at a loss.

  “Um, I don't suppose you have one of your sister's—” I groaned and my cheeks stung pink as Marin's smirk widened into a full on teasing grin. A red ribbon appeared from a pocket, and I probably flushed an even brighter shade, moving on into full red-faced. He knew me far too well.

  I scowled and tied my hair back in silence but did shoot him a grateful smile when I let my hands fall to my sides. He truly was a great friend. Goggles in place again over my now proper hair, I grinned up at him.

  “Let me see the map, maybe we can figure out where your father last worked.” Marin held out his hand, palm up.

  I had the sudden urge to grab those long, strong fingers and hold on for dear life. I hid a grimace and slapped the rolled up map into his hand instead.

  He unrolled it over our laps and simultaneously we adjusted our goggles and caught each other doing so. With grins, we studied the very elaborate and detailed map that my father had begun. Marin’s fingers traced the lower half-crescent and trailed up the coast to where the markings vanished—right where the pillar had fallen.


  Dead serious, I turned to stare down at the distant harbour, tiny boats, and people that dotted the shore. The Clock was high up the cliffs at the center of town, its great face pointing north as if impatiently watching for the Sky Trains. We could see everything from our spot, just the way we liked. I knew without asking that Marin's gaze would be focused on the distant pile of half-submerged rubble to the east.

  “He didn't map the last rows of pillars did he?” Marin's voice faltered as if his throat had gone dry. Despair clung to his words.

  Shaking hands tugged his goggles down about his throat, and I copied the motion automatically. I swallowed, my tongue seeming to weigh a ton in my mouth. I glanced up at him, watching the pain draw lines between his dark eyebrows and tighten his mouth.

  I knew that look. I wore it most days too.

  “No,” I whispered. Green eyes, vivid in the cool shadows of the Clock, pinned me to the floor with the gravity of his pain. “I can do it myself. Never mind.”

  I stood quickly, dumping the map from my knees, and turned to go. His hands shot out and his arms wound around me so fast that I could only squeak out a gasp. He pulled me into his arms and held me close, his face buried in my wild curls, his chest heaving with every emotion that struggled to break free all at once. Tears burned my eyes, and I didn't even try to brush them away.

  “No, we are in this together. As always, Callia, always,” his choked words stirred my hair and his warm breath touched my neck as he spoke.

  I blinked and let the tears fall. “Yes,” I breathed and let his safe warmth envelope me. It had always been so with Marin. He was protective to a fault, loyal more to me than even his own father. “Always, Marin.”

  We broke apart with awkward smiles and spent a long minute or two adjusting our goggles and rolling the map.

  “I can get a rowboat easy enough. Can you meet me at the dunes?” Marin ran his hands through his hair again, sending it sticking up in a new direction. I nodded, unable to trust myself to speak, and watched him vanish into the crowd that hustled and bustled up and down the steep, winding road.

  I sighed and stood, sparing a moment to pat at my hair to be sure it was still managed by the ribbon. It was, barely, so I blended into the surging crowd and slipped down the streets unnoticed.

  I heard Marin long before I saw him. He was moving at a quick run, low and stealthily along the dunes to my position that was sheltered between the sheer cliff wall and the sloping pile of sand that was constantly shifting in the unrelenting sea wind.

  “Callia?” his hushed voice reached me on the breeze.

  I stumbled to my feet with a puzzled frown. A second pair of muffled footprints had stopped behind him, but their owner had remained silent.

  I peeked over the edge of the dune and spotted him and his cousin, Den, turning and twisting about, looking for me. I stifled a giggle at their identical confused looks.

  “Up here, sillies!” I hissed at them in an overly dramatic stage whisper.

  They jumped, startled, and turned to face me.

  “Lord Callia, if my mother saw you—” Den's eyes nearly popped from his pale face as he noted my clothes.

  “Well, she won't, will she!” I warned the younger boy with a cutting glare that had more than once even snapped Pa's mouth shut. Sure enough, Den's mouth closed, and he shot Marin a helpless look.

  “Den has a boat we can use, Callia, but he needs it by morning. And we all have to be back by Clockstrike, or there will be trouble,” Marin said.

  He rolled his eyes at his cousin, and I noticed with a smirk that his shaggy brown hair had changed shapes yet again. At least I wasn't the only one to be challenged in the hair department.

  “Fine,” I shot the sky a quick glance, studying the angle of the sun and the barely visible moon. “We have a good four hours still. That's enough time to finish the cove right?”

  “Should be. Come on.” Marin led us from the drift of dunes and to the edge of the water, where an object that may have been a boat was moored to a bit of driftwood. Den vanished, informing us he'd be back for it before Clockstrike. I barely noticed, since all my effort was being spent on not freaking out.

  “That's a boat?” I stared stupidly at it. It rode low in the water and bobbled on the breaking waves.

  “Sure, it's sea worthy. Come on, you trust me right?”

  Marin's hand appeared in front of my face, magnified wildly by the goggles. I jerked them onto my forehead and dragged my eyes to his.

  “Of course. Always,” I swallowed. Boats and I had never gotten along, but Marin's steady, encouraging gaze straightened my spine.

  He helped me step into the soggy boat, and then jumped aboard lightly, at once at home on the bobbing, wet, death trap. I closed my eyes as the heavy oars clanked into position and steeled myself for the scrape of the hull on the rocky shore. It came as expected, with a splashing jerk that sent the tiny craft off the sand and rock and out into the harbour. I opened my eyes to find Marin's gaze still on me.

  “I'm okay, I think.” I smiled and tightened my grip on the sides of the boat.

  He didn't reply, but continued to study me, head tipped quizzically.

  “What?”

  “Do you even realize how amazing you are?” Marin's voice carried on the stiff breeze.

  I wondered if I'd heard him right at first. “Amazing? Hardly.” Pink cheeks to the rescue. Ugh.

  “No, really. You are terrified of this boat, yet wouldn't refuse to go, even if you're life depended on it. Why?” Marin's said softly.

  I exhaled and closed my eyes. “It is my life that depends on it, Marin. Mine, Winna's, Pa's.” I sighed and opened my eyes again just as we drifted into the cool shadow of the first pillar.

  It was a side pillar, no longer used, so the section of track remained skewed aside, rendering it impassible unless it was turned to fit to the other tracks like a puzzle. There were eighteen pillars inside the harbour alone, but only the central set was ever used anymore. I watched the rusted underpinnings drift above us as we sailed beneath the track, seeing the pale blue sky and further up the crescent moon through its grates and slats —a reminder of who the people of Sky Harbour were.

  Trouble was, few remembered any more, and fewer still passed on that knowledge to the younger generations. I don't know why the Sky Trains were built, by who, or where they went. The need to know had been a burning ache for as long as I remember.

  I dropped my gaze and found Marin eyeing the pillar.

  “What is it?”

  “This one is crumbling too. I wonder if they all are.” Worry tightened his mouth.

  He dug the oars deeper into the bobbing waves and pulled us from beneath the mammoth pillar and jutting tracks. We crossed the harbour slowly, as it was big and the waves were just a bit rough for the tiny rowboat. By the time we reached the last row of pillars, those unmapped by Pa, my fingers had dug gouges in the wooden slats and my eyes had crimped shut. We'd rowed in tense silence, our uneasiness growing the closer we came to the fallen pillar and the remains of the laundry camp.

  “You can open your eyes now, we can dock on that rock outcropping and still be close enough to study the pillars.”

  Marin's chilled fingers pried mine from the sides of the boat, and I blinked my eyes open, blinded by the glare of the sunlight on the swaying sea.

  “Okay, anything to get me off this boat. I am not brave, Marin.” I choked on a terse laugh and eyed the gap to the rock outcropping warily. I would sooner leap from the pillar tops than continue in the beastly boat.

  I stumbled to my feet as Marin offered a helping hand, scrambling with my usual lack of grace onto the rocks and turning to tug on his wool sleeve. He hardly needed my help though. He'd all but been born on the water and considered boats and the sea to be more friend than enemy.

  “Okay, which end first?” Marin tugged on the course rope that tied the boat to a small rock.

  I pulled out the map and unrolled it, only to have the sea wind whip
at it. I clutched it to my chest with a gasp. “It's too windy!” I blinked as another blast of salty wind railed at my face.

  Quickly Marin's steady hands tugged my goggles down—I'd forgotten about them again—and settled his own, before helping me hold down the flapping, brittle paper to keep the wind from stealing it.

  “Here, Pa stopped at the third pillar from the shore,” I twisted to count the massive pillars and found that the third one was, in fact, the fallen one. “He must have been out here mapping when it happened, Marin. No wonder he didn't finish . . . he saw the whole thing!” My frown was making my wind stung face hurt more, but I didn't care.

  “What color do we need to sketch the last three?” Marin stared at the bundles of pencils, crayon, chalks, and pens in blank confusion.

  “Ink first. Then we use the varying colors to indicate height, depth, etc.” I grinned, knowing that I had lost him after the word ink. Non-mapmakers didn't know what ink was.

  “This will take a bit, Marin, sorry.” I licked the end of the pen nub and flipped open the travel inkwell with one hand. Marin shrugged and scrambled higher atop the rock outcropping. He stood silhouetted against the rapidly sinking sun, hands shading his goggled eyes from the light, shaggy hair riffling in the stiff wind. I found myself studying him more than the pillars. From the ridiculous pose he suddenly struck, he knew it.

  Scarlet faced, I ducked back to the map and started to sketch.

  “Okay, done with the pillars, I can start on the shoreline now,” I said. I pushed myself up on my knees and elbows and grimaced at the low-lying sun. It was late, and judging from the reedy snores above me, Marin had given into sleep.

  “Marin Eldridge Fisher!” I barked up at him and rolled my eyes when he peered over the edge of the rock with a sheepish grin a moment later.