The Children of the Sky

“Have you seen Geri and Edvi, Timor?” said Ravna. “Are they okay?”

“Geri is getting better. We’re both in dungeons up on the main spire.” He gave a little wave toward the palace. “Edvi, I’m afraid Edvi is—”

“Edvi Verring succumbed to one of the bloating diseases. I did my best for him, but alas—”

Ravna looked up at the interruption and saw that all of Tycoon was watching them intently. But the voice, that had been the one Vendacious normally used, and a radio-cloaked singleton was standing near Tycoon. She couldn’t help but glare at the poor innocent. “So then, Vendacious,” she said. “You had custody of Edvi? Has anyone looked at the body, verified your diagnosis?”

As she spoke, Timor slipped his hand around her fingers. She felt a warning squeeze.

But Vendacious did not seem upset by the question. His voice came breezily, “The diagnosis was obvious. I’ve preserved the remains, however. You are welcome to inspect.”

Timor’s hold was still tight.

“There’s no immediate need,” she replied.

Tycoon made an impatient noise. “That’s good.” He said, “You are not the boss of us, Ravna Bergsndot. I’ve brought you here to discover if you can work for me.” Some of him was staring over her shoulder at Jefri.

•  •  •

It was a bumpy start to their factory tour, but Tycoon’s mood seemed to shift as often and as fast as sunlight and clouds. They went into the hall and climbed up to a long platform that ran the length of a production line. Tycoon insisted that Ravna walk with him, at the front of the group. Now the eightsome sounded very much like Scrupilo, the proud engineer, pointing out this detail and that, full of opinions about everything. His snouts swept the length of the hall. “This is twelve hundred meters long, with two thousand Tines working at full shift. This is one of the older halls, so it is not wired for electricity. All the main power still comes from steam engines. And yet, I’ll wager you have nothing so grand as this single factory up in your Domain.”

Okay, he was even more a braggart than Scrupilo. Still, this was preferable to some of Tycoon’s other moods. “You’re quite right, sir,” she said, and that was the truth. The far end of the hall was almost lost to sight. All of Scrupilo’s North End operation would have fit in this one building. She could see no coherent packs on the floor below, but Tines were crowded almost shoulder to shoulder at work points long the line. The activity was rapid and intricate, unceasing, like the sweatshops that the Princesses had overturned. She tried to think of something nicer than that to say—perhaps an admiring question. Wait. There was one part of this picture that didn’t fit any of the ancient file images. A water stream flowed just this side of the production line, almost directly under the elevated walkway. This channel was like the ones out on the airfield, and seemed to run the length of the hall. Where the skylights let the sun fall upon the water, she could see tiny squid-like beasties flitting about. “What are those creatures in the water, sir?” she asked.

From behind them, Timor piped up, “They’re cuttlefish!”

Tycoon shrugged. “In Interpack they’re called—” and he gobbled a simple chord. “It means small swimmers with eyes on the sides and grabbers streaming from one end. This particular variety can remember and repeat simple phrases. I use them to carry short messages, when no packs are at the destination.”

Ravna leaned a little further out and looked straight down. Yes, the critters had enormous glassy eyes. Their tentacles were long and moving all the time. And Tycoon didn’t seem to have anything more to brag about them! Interesting. She brought her gaze back to the assembly line itself. “What are you making in this factory?”

“Today? Today, this line is set up for rain gutterage gardenware. Hmmph.” He was making little annoyed sounds at himself, as if realizing that this did not fit his grand image. He turned a head and rattled Interpack at his radio singleton. A question, it sounded like to Ravna. The singleton was silent for several seconds, but when it replied, its gobbling was much more musical than normal Interpack. Ravna realized that it was chanting numbers stacked into chords. Tabular data. Tycoon summarized in Samnorsk: “Ta reports two hundred tonnes of product per day, five thousand rain gutters per hour. Still to run four more days on this lot.” Somewhere Tycoon must have a radio singleton stationed with an army of clerks. “The rain gutters are mainly for use within the Choir region. Nowadays internal sales are my greatest source of income, certainly of raw materials. But in four days, we’ll be making something else here. Productivity. Flexible productivity!”