Chapter Fifteen - Got?

I walked after one of the dune buggies, the little vehicle spitting up sand and rock that sloshed against Rusty’s feet. The other I could only-just hear behind us.

The caravan of nomads slowed, but didn’t stop. They didn’t see the need, not for a lone bounty hunter.

The buggy with the man that had addressed me earlier shot out ahead and turned so that it was riding next to one of the six-legged house mecha. I saw flashes of hand-signs before it slowed down and rode up next to the largest of the mechs. This one was bigger and equipped differently than the others. More cranes and gantries on its sides, less windows and balconies and gun emplacements. Their repair mech, probably.

The buggy’s gunner made more signs, then rode over to us. I’d set Rusty to walking at a steady pace next to the nomads, just outside of the ring of sandwalker wyrms circling their mobile camp. The buggy slowed to match and came so close I could have reached out with one of Rusty’s arms and touched it.

The gunner leapt over, grabbed onto Rusty’s hips, then threw himself upwards to place a hand in the hole I’d left open in the cockpit. “Hey,” he said as he placed his face over the entrance. Through his visor I could make out bright brown eyes and a furry face. His mask jutted out the middle to accommodate a snout. “Back of the bessie, mech. We’ll hook you up, then you jump onto the platform. Got?”

“Got,” I repeated.

The man, the kobold, hung off the side, still grabbing onto Rusty. I could only just see him making signs to the others. The buggy roared off ahead and he gestured in one periscope’s line of sight.

Nomad hang-slang. Only got one word in three, but it was enough to figure it out.

Rusty slowed just a bit more until we were lined up with the back of their repair mech. A bit of faster jogging to the side caught us up.

The repair mech, the bessie, had a low-slung body. At the back, an elevator platform was lowering on a set of pistons to hover just over the sand. Once or twice the bottom edge scraped across a bump in its way. Nomads jumped over with hooks and chains, crashing onto Rusty’s shoulders even as we kept up the pace. It wasn’t something I was used to, and I was already distracted by the drag from Rusty’s right leg, but I managed.

All hooked up, a few winches started to pull and the kobold stuck his head over the entrance again. “Hey. You do a skip jump before?”

“Once or twice,” I said.

“Good. No counts, you do you. No tripping too, got?”

“Got it,” I said.

A skip was, as the name implied, the act of skipping with a mech. It meant longer strides and a bit of a push against the ground at the end of each step. Tricky. You needed good timing, and it could be rough on joints and... well, on everything, really.

“Hang on,” I told the elf as I started to take longer steps. Chains jangled, and I saw a good half dozen nomads watching as Rusty started to skip. At the end of one step, with my left foot forward and jammed on the pedal, I flung us up and ahead.

Rusty’s right foot crashed onto the platform, winches squealed as they pulled up in. Another pair, set on long arms jutting out way back, stopped Rusty from hitting the back of the bessie.

A few things bounced around in the cabin, and I heard the elf mutter some things that I was certain weren’t church-going words in elvish.

“Hey!” the kobold said. “That was some good skipping. We’re going up. Chains are taut. You got the pay?”

“I have it,” I said with a nod.

Rusty rose up, slow and ponderous, until we were chest-high with the back of the mech. It wasn’t all that tall, but there were plenty of ladders and cranes set out on the back, most looking as if they’d been out in the sands a little too long. I reached out with both of Rusty’s arms and clamped on to a heavy bar ahead of us, then I started to shut things off.

“Why didn’t they stop?” Clin asked. “It would have been a lot safer than this whole thing.”

“Nomads don’t stop,” I said. “Not for the sun, and not for the moon. Keep your wits about you. Sniff anything you’re about to eat. If it smells spicy, be polite but firm and refuse. Spitting out a meal isn’t done here.”

“I’ll try to be diplomatic,” Clin said.

“No need for formality. Just don’t be a fidiot.” I reached up and slowly undid my hookup from Rusty. It helped that Rusty was more or less locked into place, it made the disorientation fade a bit faster. I held back a gasp and reached under my seat for my flask with shaking hands.

Clin pushed it into my palm. I didn’t even care as I took a long pull.

“Alright,” I said. “You’re going to want to look a little less... fancy. Take off those robes.”

“You want me to undress?” he asked.

“Don’t be an ass,” I said. “You’re not my type.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

I pushed off the pilot’s seat and started to take off my duster. “Come on,” I snapped.

Clin moved awkwardly, elbows and shoulders bumping here and there as he divested himself of his robes. Beneath, he was in a patterned shirt, soft and silky looking, with simple, flowing pants cinched at the waist by a thin belt. From a strap by his hip hung his little derringer’s holster, and that was it.

I tossed him my duster. “Put that on,” I said. I grabbed a water flask from a little cabinet next to the cooler. It wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t lukewarm either. Good enough. I tucked it in a belt-loop.

“Why?” he asked while shuffling away from me.

“It smells like me. It’ll keep the kobolds from sniffing you out as much, and those gnome folk will be looking for a fancy elf, not one dressed like a hunter... or partially dressed as one. Are those dancing shoes?”

“They’re loafers.”

“All the gods,” I muttered. I waited until he was slipping the duster on, feeling a little lighter without the heavy leather weighing my shoulders down. When he was nearly dressed I tugged the latch on the front canopy and pushed it open. A pair of gloved hands grabbed the edge and helped.

I squinted into the sun, then tugged my mask from its hook on the side and shoved it on while my eyes adjusted.

A gnome, short and dressed in sun-tanned overalls and wearing wyrm-scale bangles pushed a ladder closer. “Thanks,” I said as I started my way down. When I landed on deck I was greeted by about a dozen nomads. Most looked like gawkers. Gossip mongers and mechanics who wanted to know when the sun would be setting. A couple looked more important.

At the front was a short kobold, fur around his unmasked snout brushed and cleaned and sharp eyes taking me in from behind a pair of semi-burned goggles. “You’re from Galenook,” he said.

“That I am,” I said.

He nodded and pulled a flask from his hip and pushed it my way. “A drink?”

I pulled the straps of my mask and let it fall to my chest. I grabbed the flask, unscrewed the top, and took a pull. Tasted like filtered kobold piss. You could always tell. I held onto the flask in one hand and handed him the one I’d looped to my belt earlier. “Have one of your own,” I said.

“Thank you kindly,” he said as he took the flask and swallowed a good gulp. “Cool,” he said.

“I try,” I said. We traded flasks back. “Where are you folk headed to?” I asked.

There were two possible answers. An actual place, or nowhere in particular.

The kobold grinned, wide and happy, his tongue even lolled out for a bit. “My pup’s getting married,” he said. “Over by Mortarview.”

“Well congratulations,” I said. “Maybe I can give your pup a water gift for the occasion.”

He panted, happy. “She’d appreciate it, I’m sure. Where are you bound to?”

“With my mech the way it is? A sandy grave. Mortarview otherwise. Think your fine mechanics here can give old Rusty here a look-see?”

“Rusty? Good name. We can, if you can afford it. Got?”

“Got,” I replied. “I might have some things you’d like. Water, or coin if you’ll have it, cores from some goblins I was contracted to hunt down. And I have a thermogun. Gnome-made. Nearly scrapped though, but you folk are clever.”

The kobold’s hips shook a little.

I figured we’d hash out a deal soon enough.

***