“But you will,” I say. “If you want me to get your precious cargo to the rebel camp, you’ll pay.”
Hyla’s eyes flash. “Do you not want to see your people free of Majority rule? Will you not help those who do?”
She’s all virtue and ideals, light and fire. She knows nothing of existing on the dark cold of Layce.
“My cargo is of the utmost importance,” Mars says. “I’ll pay whatever it costs to get it there.”
“You and one of your people then. Choose.”
“You seem to think you’re in charge, Miss Quine.”
“It’s my rig.”
“Yes, but it’s my haul. And it needs protecting. The Shiv Road is dangerous.”
“The Shiv Road,” I repeat, Winter’s chill climbing my neck.
“Yes, Miss Quine. That’s our path.”
Then the camp will be somewhere in the northeast wing, somewhere near the Desolation of Ice. A curse skates across my teeth, but Mars is still talking.
“You and Filde are small,” he says, clapping a hand on the shoulder of the man scowling next to him. “Together you count as one.”
“Your Paradyian is massive,” I say, pointing the wrench at Hyla. “How should we count her? Look, I need my guy”—I gesture to the cab where one of my mechanics gawks down at us from an open window—“to drive us to your trailer and oversee the pickup. Where is your trailer, by the way? I assume it’s ready to go.”
“Buttoned up and awaiting a driver, Miss Quine. It’s parked in Hex Landing.”
“Hex Landing it is. I’ll take the wheel from there, but I’ve been awake for more than a day. If I don’t get some sleep, the trip across the Shiv Road will be nothing but a funeral procession. That leaves two seats for you to divvy up as you please.”
The sheen coating his eyes shifts—the only hint I have that he’s moving his gaze from one of my eyes to the other. I resist the urge to look away. This isn’t negotiable. The cab isn’t large and there must be room for Lenore.
“Filde,” Mars says, “you’ll stay behind.”
The short hairy man spits a wad of something green onto the floor, but I don’t miss the relief on his face as he turns to go. No one wants to be out on the road during the Flux.
“Good,” I say. “Thank you.”
Mars lifts his right hand, blue veins tracing over his knuckles. “Kyndel,” he calls.
The garage door swings open and another goon steps inside, a rifle resting against his shoulder and snow caught in his black curls. The lookout, I presume. I’d heard Mars had a Shiv youth traveling with him and he doesn’t disappoint.
Kyndel’s younger than Mars and a hand’s width taller. Built like a man, but with a wide-eyed cockiness found in boys just brave enough to steal a bottle of ale when the barkeep’s got his back turned. Lenore used to chase pups like him from the tavern every night of the week.
Most of the Shiv pulling through Whistletop keep their stone flesh covered. Leni hired a waitress a while back with some Shiv in her. The marbled blue stone across her pale forehead was all the invitation necessary for some riggers. They abused and ridiculed her for the violent actions of her kin, and she took to wearing a scarf to stave off their ignorance.
But Kyndel here’s not interested in covering up. Despite the cold, his missing shirtsleeves show off shoulders and biceps made of stone, the same red-brown as his eyes and a shade warmer than his dark skin. Another line of red rock curves along his right cheekbone, stopping only when it reaches his temple.
He leans in, letting Mars speak something into his ear. Whatever it is, it isn’t the dismissal I’d assumed was coming. The Shiv passes his gun to Mars and climbs up into the cab.
“Hey!” I yell, leaping onto the running board. “What are you doing? Get out of there.”
My mechanic sits in the passenger seat pulling metal glue from his thumb. He’s a nightmare with that stuff, he’s gotten it on everything. The door, the wheel. Even now, with his mouth gaping stupidly at Kyndel, he drags his sticky fingers through the mop on his head.
“It’s a beautiful machine,” Kyndel says, his hands moving over the gear shift and the instrument panel, the toggles that adjust the outside mirrors and the loader bucket.
“Can you drive it?” Mars asks.
“Through the forest to Hex Landing? Not a problem. But the Shiv Road?”
“The Shiv Road will be her problem,” Mars says.
I drop to the ground, chucking aside the wrench. “Absolutely not. The kid’s what? Twelve?”
“Seventeen Rymes,” Mars says. “Same as you, I believe.”
“The Dragon’s not like the other rigs on the island.”
“Kyn’s a capable driver, Miss Quine. Far more capable than your . . . guy. He knows how to handle a gun, a necessary skill when you’re hauling contraband. And he speaks Shiv. If we run into trouble out on the road, we’ll need him.”
“I don’t think your guy’s up for it anyway,” Kyn says, jumping down, taking the gun from Mars. “He just glued his eyelid shut. You’re the ice witch, yeah? Sylver Quine?” He extends his hand.
Loath though I am to share my driver’s seat with anyone, Kyn here looks far more competent than my mechanic.
“Stop scowling, Miss Quine, and shake the boy’s hand. He’s the only reason you’ll get any sleep tonight.”
I don’t shake, but Kyn doesn’t seem bothered. He bumps my chin with his knuckle instead. “You rest up, little ice witch. I’ll get us to the trailer.”
He’s a cocky pup, but there’s a steadiness to his hands. The kind of steadiness I look for in any trucker.
“If your man is so capable,” I ask Mars, rubbing absently at my chin, “why are you still looking for a driver?”
“I don’t have a dragon,” Kyn says, running his hand over the hood.
“You could have left ages ago and the Flux wouldn’t have been nearly the problem it is now.”
“Kyndel’s abilities have their limits, Miss Quine.”
The insinuation being that mine do not. “I don’t throw around magic like you do.”
“Thus far, you haven’t had to. That might change.”
“Fine. Kyn goes. But why the Paradyian? She’s hardly built for the cold.”
Mars almost smiles. “Hyla spent six years as a mechanic in the Paradyian army. I’d wager she has more experience with tank tread than you do.”
And that’s when I run out of arguments.
A Kerce smuggler, a Paradyian mechanic, and a Shiv driver. All in my rig. And I’m not great at sharing.
“I need to sleep,” I say.
Mars smiles. “Let’s get going.”
Before we load up, I plunder the cab of an ancient pickup collecting snow in the lot. It’s the rearview mirror I need. The Dragon doesn’t have one. Most days, there’s no need; the sleeper compartment blocks any view to the rear. But mirrors are handy for keeping an eye on the guy sitting behind you, and with my rig suddenly full of people, the addition feels necessary.
The mirror is spotted and cracked, but once it’s mounted, I hand Kyn-the-Shiv my keys and climb in, over the driver’s seat and the bench behind, into the sleeper compartment. It’s nothing fancy, just one big mattress and a box of dried food stashed in the corner.