“What?” Evanne glanced to the fairy as she coaxed the skiff’s sails about. The little craft shuddered but didn’t toss them overboard.

  “Nothing,” Tarragon lied, turning back to the lake before them.

  “You wanted to come here,” Evanne said. “You said⁠—”

  “Aye,” the fairy said. “I remember it well. I said, ‘Come to this place, and we will find where I was born. A place of wonders! And with it, we will fix your armour’.”

  “Technically, it’s my armour,” Hitch said.

  “Tell you what,” Evanne said. “If you can carry it, you can have it.”

  “That’s low,” the spectre said.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” Evanne said. “I will wear the armour, and you will wear me. Together, we will save the world.”

  Tarragon bit her lip harder. Jealousy tickled her belly. I don’t even know why I’m jealous! He’s dead, and she’s a Big, and…

  And, of course, rationale didn’t make the feeling go away.

  The innkeeper had said there was a mountain within a vale many generations past. ‘Many generations’ was probably a euphemism for, ‘more years than I have fingers to count’, but perhaps Tarragon was being unkind. He’d sent a runner and when the boy returned, he’d carried an old scroll. Unfurled, it was a stained and smudged map of the region.

  The man had pointed to a section of the map where a small mountain jutted above a plain. Tarragon could imagine swaying green grass with the Itikari enclave atop. Not much imagination needed; I was born here. Everything was so different now, though. Something had changed this region. Forests grew where roads used to be. The air held a chill that wasn’t present before, and it smelled different. Not clean and dry, but wet and rich. Not rotted or anything, just … not the same.

  It’s making me doubt my memories. Can I even open the door to my home? Will the city remember me?

  She glanced back at Evanne. The young woman grinned into the spray as their little boat scuffed the water, rust locks damp from rain, spume, or both. She might be a problem. She is a maybe-Vhemin. I can see the heart of her, and know she is good, but the city’s Council might see only the monster, the creature on the surface. Still, they both knew that was a problem they’d need to solve, much like that of getting the Artifices to respond to Evanne’s touch in the plaguelands.

  Then, the problem was she wasn’t Vhemin enough. The irised doorway into the machine had been sullen and unresponsive until Evanne lost her temper. Perhaps that was a trait the Artifice recognised, but not for long enough. The machine had glowered to somnolence after a mere hundred klicks.

  Still, we survived. It got them off the sands and let them journey through other parts of the Forsaken Lands. Or’sen, Tarragon corrected herself. They don’t think they’re Forsaken anymore.

  “Do you think this is far enough?” Evanne stood, balancing in their small skiff. They’d ‘borrowed’ a diving bell and anchor from the township. ‘Diving bell’ was a generous term. This looked like a cauldron with a chunk of glass fitted to the side. A Big could huddle inside, the anchor on the lakebed below, and play a line through a pulley moored to the boat above. This was old, pitted, and to Tarragon’s eye a guaranteed way to get tetanus if you were to scratch yourself on it.

  The anchor was a hunk of crude stone. Tarragon thought the pulley was seized when they’d ‘liberated’ it, but it was just a crude friction fit. The idea was to have just enough weight below that the buoyancy of trapped air would keep things more or less equal with the below-average pulley. There wasn’t enough air inside to last more than a span of ten minutes before they’d start flagging, but that was fine. If they couldn’t open the door within ten minutes, they weren’t going to get in at all.

  Tarragon watched as Evanne chucked the anchor and bell over the side, skiff bobbing and swaying in an unpleasant manner. The maybe-Vhemin didn’t seem to notice, keeping her balance—nay, poise—with ease as she eyed the top of the bell. It didn’t immediately sink.

  “This is a terrible idea.” Hitch strode out over the lake to stare at the diving bell. “This thing was made by inbred hicks in a backwater town that doesn’t have a seafaring history.”

  “Aye,” Evanne nodded. “That’s true, but it’s also true there’s a cave of wonders below. A place of history and wealth, treasures and trinkets we can rescue to aid our world. And,” her lavender eyes found Tarragon’s, “perhaps give a measure of remembrance to those yet living.”

  “Was that a dig?” The ghost sounded uncertain.

  “Calm yourself, spectre.” Evanne shucked her wet cloak. “We must go, and that’s all there is to it.” The maybe-Vhemin wrapped her guitar in the cloak, then stowed it under one arm. Tarragon took a moment to marvel. Free of the cloak, her bare arms were muscled, lean, and hard. Evanne shared a look with her, those not-quite-shark’s teeth sharp enough, but within a smile sweet enough to make honey seem bland. “Are you ready, fairy?”

  “Me?” Tarragon fluttered. “I, I, uh.”

  “For certain death. Wonders! The discovery of the dive. Seeing if it’s all been worth it.” Evanne swept her arm, encompassing the lake.

  Tarragon bit her lower lip. “To see if we’ve wasted our time? To see if things below are as I remember?”

  “To see if there is a chance at answers.” Evanne held out her hand, and the fairy hopped on, scampered up that wonderfully muscled arm, and perched on her shoulder, holding on to rust locks for balance. “We’ve come to fix what’s broken.”

  “The armour?”

  “That, too.” Evanne glanced at the ghost. “Care to take a look below?”

  “Lazy living creature.” Hitch sank beneath the water. They were left alone for a moment, cold wind making Evanne shiver beneath Tarragon. The fairy put on a little glimmer, sharing her warmth, and she felt Evanne relax a little. The ghost resurfaced. “It is cold and dark below. Oh! There’s a lot of water.”

  Evanne growled. “And the door?”

  “Aye, aye, calm yourself. The door is there. Also, a small boat lies in ruins nearby. No body, though.” He sniffed. “Might be the one Wolrif used to come out this way. No sign of the lad himself, not even a stray thigh bone.”

  “Femur,” Tarragon said.

  “Nor one of those,” Hitch agreed. “There may be denizens of the deep that ate the man. Or, Itikari wards did their job.”

  “We are wasting air.” Evanne shucked her boots, made sure her scattergun hung by her side, and gave Tarragon a glance. “Are you ready?”

  The fairy took wing. “Let’s do this.”

  Evanne stepped off the side, plunging into the lake. She surfaced with a small cry. “This is very cold!”

  Tarragon smiled, then dove in herself. She flutter-swam into the diving bell, surfacing within. It smelled like a rusted barrel, but the inside was dry enough. The small porthole gave a glimpse of the world outside.

  Evanne surfaced beside her, the maybe-Vhemin’s hair slicked against her head. “Let us descend.”

  Tarragon offered more glimmer as Evanne played the line through her fingers. The bell descended, the world above slipping from view.

  They went into the deep.

  They drifted lower, Evanne’s strong arms working the rope. The pulley inside the bell squeaked, at a pitch high enough it set Tarragon’s teeth on edge.

  “Hey. Sparky.” Evanne blew a strand of sodden hair away from her face. “Could you, you know?”

  Tarragon blinked. “Sorry.” She glimmered, lighting the inside of the bell as they went further into the dark. She perched on Evanne’s shoulder, feeling the muscles work as the Big took them deeper.

  I’m going back home. Why is she doing this? We know repairing the armour is unlikely. But she came anyway.

  It was a weird thought. Bigs didn’t do things for fairies. They’d made the Fairy Kingdom to look after them. To fuss with the clever machines that made their lives easier, or longer, and sometimes shorter, depending on whether you worked in the weapons division.

  But here was a Big, going down in a smelly diving bell, legs no doubt freezing in the water, her half-Vhemin blood chilled to sluggish slurry, for … for what?

  “I bet that’s cold,” Hitch offered. He drifted inside the bell, although his voice didn’t need air to be heard. “It looks cold. At least it’s freshwater.”

  “Why’s. That. Good news?” Evanne was breathing hard. Tarragon knew that her heart worked better than new now, but it was still going to be a lot of work to shift the mass of the diving bell into the deep through a shitty, rusty pulley system.

  “No sharks,” the spectre said. “Your legs are flailing about. If I was a shark, I’d find them appetising. The trick with sharks is to⁠—”

  “No sharks, don’t care,” Evanne said. She paused for a breather. The air was getting murky, and Tarragon hoped they would be done before carbon dioxide poisoning killed them both. “Anything else that I should worry about?”

  “I saw an eel.”

  “Fine. No problem.”

  “It was as long as the skiff.” Hitch ducked outside, then back in. “I don’t think it’s here anymore. You can’t miss a thing like that.”

  Evanne started yanking the rope again, and down they went, squeak squeak, huff huff. Tarragon felt useless, her glimmer illuminating the bell’s interior but not much use otherwise.

  Then, the maybe-Vhemin froze. “That’s not good.”

  “What’s not good?” Tarragon looked at her, the rope, the bell, and through the porthole where nothing but gloom reigned.

  “The rope. It thrummed in my hand.” She looked down, perhaps unconsciously stilling her flailing legs. “You sure there’s no sharks here?”

  “It’s twenty, maybe twenty-five meters down, tops,” Hitch said.

  “Why is that important?” Evanne’s eyebrows bunched in confusion. “Do sharks not live in deep water?”

  “They love deep water,” the ghost assured her. “No, that was the eel. It’s found your anchor. I think it’s chewing on the line, and that means⁠—”

  The line snapped, and whatever the ghost thought it meant was lost as they dropped like a stone. Evanne grabbed the inside of the bell, trying to stop the line playing out, but the wet end of the rope snaked through her fingers and was lost to the lake. They descended, a lot faster than before, and while the maybe-Vhemin made no noise but some angry grunting, Tarragon was ashamed to admit she squealed.

  There was a gong as the bell hit stone, then a creak as it lodged on something. The water in the bell foamed, a black, oily shape circling Evanne. The eel! It’s here!

  Evanne snarled, grabbing the creature, which looped about her like a python, its slick scales running through her human fingers. Tarragon lost her perch, hit the water with a splash, and bubbled to the lakebed.

  The eel was a monster, and it had the look of a hungry monster. But Evanne was half monster herself, and that half was all bile, spite, and anger. Tarragon caught the glint of steel as the maybe-Vhemin lashed out with a knife, the water murking red, then the eel got in on the action, biting on Evanne’s arm.

  I can’t help. Tarragon couldn’t fly through water. Couldn’t get up enough speed to punch through the eel, and besides, in a few more moments she’d drown unless she got back into the bell and its precious supply of air.

  She swam toward Evanne, even though that seemed suicidal, glimmering as she came, hoping the young woman wouldn’t strike her by accident. The good news was that didn’t happen, but the bad news was the eel saw her glimmer, changed tactics, and swallowed the fairy. One minute there was sandy, turgid water, the next she was in the gullet of a sea monster. It was slimy, and her glimmer wasn’t delivering happy views, all red nastiness. She snatched and flailed, but there wasn’t a lot of room, and less air.

  I’m going to die.

  The fairy thought about burning bright, but … what will that do to Evanne? The water could boil, or turn to scalding steam, or… She flailed, terror clutching at her, the glimmer inside welling to a peak, wanting to be free, to burn, to let her escape…

  She heard dull thunk, and the eel thrashed, then a ftoooom. The eel stopped moving, water gurgling down around Tarragon. The fairy clawed above, trying to come back up, and popped out into a horror show of gibs and splatter, but also air, which she sucked in big lungfuls of.

  Evanne was all bared teeth, the ancient scattergun in her hand, the end trailing smoke, her other hand clutching a fistful of eel. The eel’s head was gone, just stray red spray on the inside of the bell.

  She used one of her precious cartridges to save me. Tarragon wanted to say Thank you, but before she could finish catching her breath, the bell creaked. They both froze. Evanne put the gun away. “What did you see? Outside, I mean. Is there a door?”

  Tarragon nodded. “About five meters that way.” She pointed, remembering from her brief time on the lakebed. “The bell is lodged between rocks. It’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine. I just shot the inside of it with a scattergun. And my foot’s lodged.” Evanne’s violet eyes gave little away, but Tarragon heard the tension in her words. “I’m stuck, fairy. I can’t get free.”

  “We’ll get you out,” Tarragon promised, just as the porthole burst, water spraying into their tiny air pocket.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Evanne yanked her trapped foot, but it was wedged good. Her hair billowed in a nimbus about her head, rust locks turned black by the lake. Tarragon glowed in the murk, orange-gold light casting long shadows among the rocks about Evanne’s feet. The worthless diving bell was still lodged on other rocks, befouling her movements.

  It looked like her foot was caught in a crevasse. A jagged maw in the lakebed ran beneath the rocks to either side of Evanne. Her foot didn’t hurt, not like she’d broken it, but she couldn’t get it free.

  I’ve got to cut myself loose. She drew the knife she’d speared the eel with, breath burning in her lungs. Her ankle was below the lake floor, so she’d need to cut through her shin. Who am I kidding? I’m not going to saw my own leg off with a knife. I don’t like pain enough, and besides, it’ll take longer than the air I’ve got.

  Her lungs spasmed and she clenched her mouth closed to stop sucking in murk. Tarragon glimmered closer, eyes wide at her knife. Evanne used it to point to the surface. Go on. Get. No sense in two dying because one had big feet.

  The fairy looked at the crevasse, then swam down. Evanne tried to shoo her away with her other foot, but the water made her kick sluggish and imprecise. Tarragon swam a lazy circle about her leg, then dove into the gash in the rock by Evanne’s foot.

  Blackness. Great. She’s going to die, but I’ll die without light.

  Hitch shone ghost blue before her. “I’m here. I’ll not leave.” He sounded wretched, pacing on his not-legs, looking about for an angle. “I’m … I’m not sure what to do.”

  Her chest clenched, and she tried not to gasp for breath, but the struggle with the eel had made her breathe hard, and she was at the end of her tether. She sucked in water, coughed, breathed more liquid, flailing against her bound foot, against the water, the rock about her. Evanne knocked the bell, the stubborn thing not moving at all, felt the black getting closer, her heart slowing, her life leaving.

  Pain stabbed her trapped leg as the crevasse gripped tighter, before it released in a grinding, grating moan muted by water. Bubbles burst about Evanne, then the weight of the lake dragged her below. She fell fast, going from ‘water’ to ‘water with air’, nothing to slow her descent.

  She landed on a metal floor, lake sluice pounding her to the ground. She tried to claw away, her movements weak, and for some reason heard Hitch say, “Counter clockwise. No, the other counter clockwise! That’s it. Faster!”

  That grinding, grating noise again, the water easing, ebbing, and leaving her gasping for air. I’m … breathing! I’m breathing! She would’ve laughed if she had the strength, but instead threw up, coughing out water, mud and other slurry. By the Three there’s a lot of it, where’s it all coming from…

  And then, she fell on her face, because that felt like the right response.

  “All I’m asking is how could you not know it was counter clockwise?”

  “I failed my exams.”

  “Even I knew… Oh. She’s awake.” Hitch ghosted closer, his blue glow illuminating the metal Evanne lay on. It was a rusted grill, pitted by time, water, or both.

  His blue radiance was outshone by Tarragon’s glimmer as the fairy fluttered closer. Her face was drawn, and for the first time Evanne could remember, there were bags under her eyes. “Are you okay?”

  “Water,” Evanne croaked.

  “I would’ve thought you’d have had enough of that,” Hitch said.

  “I could open the gate again.” Tarragon bit her lip, turning away.

  “Gods no,” Evanne said. “I’m not that thirsty.” She made it upright on the second try, legs sturdy enough despite her fall. She glared at the ceiling, which was also metal, but marked by a long line through the middle. “What is this place?”

  “Think of it like a stable, but for machines,” Hitch said. “The ancients kept their vehicles here. Wondrous machines that roamed the earth or commanded the skies. They were⁠—”

  “It’s a hangar,” Tarragon said. “But there’s nothing here but us. Oh. And this guy.”

  Evanne followed Tarragon, slightly favouring the leg that’d been caught. It grumbled at her, but at least she was alive to be grumbled at. The fairy flitted away, her glimmer not touching the walls, giving Evanne the impression of a vast space. This was all under the lake? No, that wasn’t right. This ‘hangar’ didn’t use to be under anything. The fairy stopped over a sad huddle: a now-wet skeleton clothed in the manner of Evanne’s time, none of the fancy threads she’d seen ancients’ ghosts wearing. Nothing like her cloak she’d taken from the hospital, either.

  The remains didn’t look savaged. He looked peaceful enough, just laying down, grinning skull staring for all eternity at the ceiling. Clutched in bony fingers was a golden sceptre.