"Lackey, Mercedes - Born To Run" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

But as he wound his way through the offices, a change in the schedule posted beside the machine-shop door caught his eye. It would have been hard not to notice it; under the track schedule was a red-circled “canceled” notice.
When he read it, he had to grin. The old luck comes through again. Excellent. Some time between when he'd left for lunch and when he was supposed to return, Keighvin had changed the scheduling. The track had been closed this afternoon for repairs after some damage from a tire-test this morning.
A tire-test? What the hey?
He grabbed the first person he saw when he got into the shops. “What happened at the track this morning?” he asked.
The mechanic, Donal—one of Keighvin's Sidhe, and Tannim's oldest friend Underhill except for Keighvin—grinned wryly. “Hard to believe, eh? Wouldn't have believed it meself if I hadna seen it. We had a series of new tires for the GTP test mule—same mule you were supposed to check brake mods and suspension geometry on. Well, seems our mods or the tires or both were a little too good.” Tannim watched the elven man rock back on his heels, eyes glittering.
“So what happened?” he asked, since Donal was obviously waiting for him to make some kind of response.
“Well, the lateral gees put a three-inch ripple in the asphalt on one of the turns.” Donal's grin got even wider, and Tannim didn't blame him; Donal was part of the crew responsible for the handling. This was something of a coup—for a mule to hug the track that hard on the turns said a lot.
But—a three-inch ripple? That was a lot of lateral. His expression must have said something of his surprise, as Donal held up a hand as if he was swearing to the fact.
“I promise; I measured it meself. We all saw it—a three-inch lump, plain as Danaa's light, ten feet long. We had to hire a steamroller to flatten the track. Took us the rest of the day. Keighvin figured you'd see the posting and take off.”
Now Donal raised an eyebrow, because Tannim should have known what had happened, since it had undoubtedly been all over the shop; Tannim just shrugged. He wasn't good enough to lie to a Sidhe, so he simply told part of the truth. “You know there's never anyone to answer questions around here in the afternoon. I had a picnic out at the Fort. So, where's Keighvin?”
“With Sam Kelly, at the forge-shop.” Donal grinned again, showing gleaming white teeth, teeth that were a little feral-looking. “Now 'tis a 'forge' in more ways than one. Sam seems to have concocted a process that will pass muster, and he's moved that molten-metal equipment we kenned out to the other shop. Says we'll be ready for a cast of thousands.”
“Ech, that's awful. 'Forged' engine blocks, hmm?” Tannim indulged the Sidhe; Donal was fond of puns. “And a 'forged' process. Well, I'd better get out there and see what Keighvin wants me to do now.”
He wound his way through metal and machinery to the roofed passage that joined this shop to the formerly-empty forge building. He noticed along the way that a lot of the computer-driven equipment was missing; presumably it had been moved to its new home.
Keighvin should have been glowing with cheer; the mods that had warped the track had certainly proved successful, and now he had a “process” that would explain where his engine blocks and other cast-aluminum pieces were coming from. But when Tannim found him, supervising the set-up and activation of some arcane-looking machine by that insanely cheerful human tech-genius Skippy-Rob, he didn't look particularly happy.
Tannim wondered if something more had gone wrong than he'd been told, but it wasn't that kind of expression. He'd seen the Sidhe display all kinds of moods, and it was the “unreadable” ones that he feared the most. Keighvin was a gentleman by any creatures' standards, but he had his breaking points, and when he was near one . . . Keighvin looked up and saw him lurking out of the way, then beckoned the young mage over.
“What's cooking?” Tannim asked casually. “Anything wrong with Sam's phony process?”
“With the process—nothing,” Keighvin replied, rubbing one temple distractedly. “But—Vidal Dhu showed up at Sam's this morning. Not inside the house, but he blocked Sam's driveway long enough to deliver a message.”
“I think I can guess the message,” Tannim said slowly.
Keighvin nodded, grimly. “A threat, of course. At least he didn't say, 'And your little dog, too.' The worrisome thing is that he's managed to recruit a corps of lesser nasties, and they're putting pressure on our boundaries. Nothing like overt warfare, but—don't go into the woods after dark.”
“Any things we haven't taken out before?”
“Nothing any worse, so far as we can tell. I don't like it. And I don't like Sam being outside our hardened boundaries. I'm setting up our spare rooms here as sleeping-quarters for anyone who can't protect themselves, including Sam.”
The man in question had come around the corner during Silverhair's little speech, and waited until he had finished before leaving the work crew and joining them.
“You're worrying too much, Keighvin,” the old man said comfortably. “I've been going over my old gran's stories. I think I can hold off the boggles; enough to permit the cavalry to come over the hill to rescue me, anyway.”
Tannim noticed that the old man was wearing what looked like an Uzi holstered at his hip; Sam patted it as he finished his statement.
Tannim frowned, rubbing his eyes. “Sam, I don't mean to rain on your parade, but plain old bullets aren't going to stop Vidal, and they certainly aren't going to do anything to a creature like a troll that can heal itself—”
Sam pulled the gun from the holster and handed it to him, wordlessly. Tannim took it—and it sloshed. It was one of the old Uzi-replica water-pistols, and not a real gun at all.
“One of your local geniuses prepared this for me,” the old man said. “That's salt and holy water. That should take care of a fair number of yon blackguard's friends. I've got rosemary, rue, and salt in my pocket, and a horseshoe nail with them. There's an iron plate across every door and windowsill of the house, horse-shoes nailed up over every door and the fireplace, and sprigs of oak, ash, and thorn up there with them. A lass here is preparing iron-filled .357 hollowtips for me Colt, and meanwhile, there's this—”
He touched the sheath on his other side, and Tannim saw the hilt of a crudely-forged knife. He had no doubt that it was of good Cold Iron. Sam wasn't taking chances on a steel blade.
“That's all very well,” Keighvin warned, “but it won't hold them for long. They'll find ways around your protections and mine, eventually.”
Sam holstered his water-pistol. “Doesn't have to keep them busy for long,” he countered. “It'll hold them baffled for long enough. All I have to do now is supervise your setup, put my John Hancock to everything and write up my part in this deal. That's a matter of a couple of weeks at most. The rude bastard can bluster all he wants. Once I'm finished, you don't need me anymore. You just need my name.”
“But what if something goes wrong?” Keighvin asked. “There's nobody here that knows the language—”
“But this Vidal character doesn't know that,” Sam replied. “He's like some of the really old execs at Gulfstream, the ones who didn't understand tech. He may even be a technophobe, for all we know. That kind thinks that once something technological is set in place, it sits and glowers and runs itself with no further help.”
Both Keighvin and Tannim snorted; Sam shrugged. “I know it makes no sense, but that's the way these people think. All he'll see is me sitting back in my chair, and letting you run the show. He'll figure going after me is a waste of effort.”
Keighvin shook his head doubtfully, and Tannim had to agree with the Sidhe. He wasn't convinced that Sam was right, either.
But Sam was an adult, and perfectly capable of making his own decisions. Besides, Tannim had other problems.
“Keighvin, I know this is coming at the worst possible time,” he said, reluctantly, “but we've got another problem, too.” Briefly he outlined Tania's situation, and the plight of the underage hookers she lived with. He hoped to catch Keighvin's interest, but the Sidhe-mage shook his head regretfully.
“Damn ye, Tannim, your timing sucks. I can't do anything for them right now,” he said, plainly unhappy with the situation. “I'm sorry, but we're up to our pointy ears in alligators at the moment. I can't do anything for them out there—and you can't bring them here. I can't have a single non-mage mortal inside the boundary right now,” he continued, frankly, laying the whole situation on the table so Tannim could see it. “And I'm stretching things to include Sam, because he believes and he's got a bit of the Sight himself. Who knows what these children would do if they saw a skirmish with one of Vidal Dhu's little friends out there? If they panicked, they could breach the shields. If they were taken in by appearances, they could actually bring Vidal inside.”
Tannim had to admit, reluctantly, that Keighvin was right. He didn't want to say it out loud, though. Maybe, just maybe, I can talk him into changing his mind.
“If I let you bring them here, they'd at best be targets and weak spots,” Keighvin continued. “Can't do that, no matter how desperate their situation seems to be, my friend. Keep siphoning them money; that's easy enough. They've kept their necks above water this long, Tannim, they can keep a little longer. When we've finished with Vidal Dhu, you can coax them in to us, but right now they'd just be in more danger with us than they are now.”
Tannim grimaced. He didn't like it—but Keighvin was the boss at Fairgrove. This was his territory, and he knew the strengths and weaknesses better than anyone else.
So be it, Keighvin. I've got more to call on than spells. There's always the magic of folding green.
Keighvin eyed Tannim with a very readable expression—one of tired worry. He could read moods as well as minds. Tannim figured that Keighvin knew what his current expression meant. He met Keighvin's eyes squarely, and a little defiantly.
Yes, I am up to something.
But it was too late tonight to do anything about the situation. Tania was safe for the rest of the night, at least, and with any luck at all, that hundred would keep her off the streets for another couple of days. That would be long enough for Tannim to get Plan B into gear.
Assuming nothing happens between then and now. Like one of her friends getting tangled up with a pimp, or on the wrong side of a dealer, or—
He cut the thoughts short. There was no use worrying about the kids right now; he'd do what he could, when he could.
“Look,” he said, running his hand through his hair, catching on more snags than usual, “I'm beat. If there isn't anything you need me for, I'm going home to get some shut-eye. Are we rescheduling those tests for tomorr—I mean, today? Or is it tomorrow?” He rubbed his eyes, wishing in a way that he could run them now. Although he was tired, he was also full of nervous energy, and he wished he had somewhere to go with it.
“No, Goodyear has the track,” Keighvin said, his expression one of mingled relief and apprehension. Tannim had a shrewd idea of why the Sidhe wore the latter. Keighvin had to be wondering now just what it was Tannim had in mind to do about the kids.
Keep wondering.
“We have it after Goodyear,” Keighvin added. “You are going to be fit to drive, I hope? And you don't plan on going anywhere tonight, do you? Sam should be safe enough here.” The statement indicated that he wasn't necessarily worried about Tannim's involvement with the kids.