Andres slept into his shift, and Reynolds had to come get him.

“Wake up call for Mr. Lazy-ass! Andres!” The bang at the window lurched him awake and out of bed. All the way to the Guild Reynolds carried on, berating the young man about the importance of punctuality and how screwed he was if he didn’t submit enough hours for Journey. Andres hummed in acknowledgment, he was glad at least Reynolds wasn’t treating him any different. His head was woolly and thick with the dream-thoughts, he was still in the dream if he focused on it. They cut through the narrow lanes of the village dwellings on the way to the Guild, Reynolds figured the Questing had enough and grunted, produced a folded-up cloth with a tortilla and puff-egg and Andres took it. 

“Rey, what’s all this?” Andres said chewing, his sleepiness dissipating with food in his system and the bustle of the village around him. 

“You understand the Conscience is tonight?” 

“I do,”

“Lots to do, the Farmer’s Guild has called for time. ‘Want to discuss Scorch Hours and such,” for a moment they continued without speaking, working through a tangle of people loading chariot-cars and wagons. A feeling was sore in Andres’ diaphragm.

“Why all this fuss for the solstice?” it seemed the Journey-master was waiting for him to ask.

“If you were at the Guild on time you’d know about the summons,” Reynolds started, his words fueled by his usual bravado. He moved closer so just Andres could hear, “college-types are coming to inspect the body of that thing in the market,” The Journey-master mumbled, Andres swallowed hard. “Folks don’t feel safe with them coming to town. Too many secrets that need ‘kept hidden, families on the archeology heat are already gone, the Guild has spoken to plenty of ‘art families, and they’re going too,” Reynolds said with seriousness. Whole families leaving town just avoid ‘college-types’?

I gotta wrap this Guild thing up and check on Cricket. 

There was a hectic uneasiness in the Artisan Guild. Taskmaster Il’Defonso looked haggard distributing work-tags off a large board with dozens of hammered tin badges. The Guild itself was a large open dwelling chiseled into the sandstone. Long workbenches cluttered with Artisan components were scooped up and maintained by Guild members. Workspaces were lit by the skylights over head. Nearby, Andres observed a gruff looking Artisan show a Questing how to clamp a calphic-lamp onto a prism that would direct the beam it shot forth.

“Andres Huff, you’re late and not paying attention,” the Taskmaster said in a clipped voice and Andres shot back to focus. Reynolds had gone, he’d done his job and brought the truant to Il’Defonso, ‘probably slipped away to other Guild duties.  “You’re needed at the Rycroft household, Tomas needs you to help him repair his cooling system. go now.”

“You got it. Do you know anything about the Lambents?” 

“You’re already late and that ‘don’t matter. Get on with it Andres, check out a hook-and-filing set and make sure you return it,” Il’Defonso gave him a token to bring to the Tools-master, and proceeded to convene with the artisan behind him. Andres took the token and got on with it.

Senor Rycroft was a salt-and-pepper headed man with callused hands that shook Andres’ vigorously. 

“Hello Mr. Andres Huff, how are you?” He said nonchalant and fierce. Andres remained amiable, though he thought Rycroft might shake his shoulder out of place. 

“Good Senor, ‘real sorry I’m late,” he apologized but the farmer batted the air with a hand. 

“No trouble. You’re here. Do I see Stan in your face or what?” Rycroft said easily.

At this corner of the village it was all multifunctional structures. The Rycroft household was a dense little tract with a thick ivy canopy shading the walkway inside. Andres could see just over the green bulk sloping windows that curved down into the backyard of the home. Andres adjusted the too-big tool scrip at his side as Rycroft ushered him into the dwelling.

“I don’t lie to you about the resemblance,” Rycroft carried on bringing Andres through a small cluttered antechamber. He tried to absorb details of the dim interior, piled spiral-bound journals and almanacs of years past took up plenty of space. More greenery hung from the vigas. Andres could hear indistinct animal sounds from unseen rooms. He felt like he was being swallowed as he delved deeper into a green monsters belly. 

It smells crazy in here. 

“I will be shaping the new tubes, I trust you can fit all the new filings into the old fixture,” Andres tried to keep up. They came through a doorway into a brightly lit room, the kitchen. Andres pulled at the collar of his t-style shirt, it was stiflingly warm.

 Sitting at the table was a woman sipping chilled tea, her silver hair was gathered in a ponytail. Her off hand was making notes in a ledger. These people were members of arguably the most important ilk for the village, the farmers worked the great plots of fertile land in the southwest region of Busue. It seemed the Rycrofts had also started their own subsistence operation here as well. Out the clerestory windows Andres saw the curve of an enclosed greenhouse, he also picked out the distinct sounds of a chicken run. 

“Please look at this young man’s face and tell me he doesn’t fit Stanley,” the farmer said without an introduction to his wife. Andres adopted an awkward smile, Senora Rycroft appraised him quickly. “What did that Parturist sister say Stanely had the face of?” Rycroft asked, easing past Andres and retrieving a key off of a hook. Senora Rycroft recalled it immediately.

“He had the face of a Capital Centurion. Hello Andres, how are your parents?” She asked kindly. 

“Good. Walking the west coast, living the dream,”he said and Senora Rycroft smiled. Rycroft unlocked a door on the other side of the room and beckoned Andres, Sen. Rycroft turned the page of her ledger and wished the men ‘happy repairing’. 

Down the stairs into the dry cellar the farmer continued his grand plan to Andres. Down in the cellar were stacked sacks of either grain or seed, imbedded in the wall perpendicular to the stairs was a round apparatus consisting of a wide mouthed shaft. It was a fixture for an array of mineral pipes.

“We store much of our stock in here, can’t have it getting too hot and dry. File those tubes to size, then join me in the pottery upstairs. I’ll be shaping more while you work, we can get more done with the both of us.” Andres agreed. 

“Thank you my boy, I’ll get started on those rods, come upstairs when you’re done!” And in an instant, Rycroft was upstairs and he was alone. 

Andres eased onto the ground underneath the evaporative cooler, moving aside the collecting pan. A cool draft emanated from the gaping maw in front of him. He started on the job, retrieved the file from his scrip and started the first few tubes. The work was mindless, which was nice. He tried not to think about things, file left, then right, don’t chip the thing we only have so many. He thought about the fight in the market with the monster. The moment after touching the big creatures… soul or whatever it was. He went to that dream-place, and he broke apart the rock-beast with help from the Naida woman, and the she left. A mote of mineral dust blew in his face, Andres coughed. Try not to think about things. The youth got to fitting the thousand fittings, and the dream-thoughts returned in a slow permanence. It felt like nostalgia and something hot settling his stomach. 

Naida pursued Daedalus back to the Workshop. The kin-god was in his personal storerooms preparing for his journey to raze Buena Suerte. Dejected, Naida found herself in the room with the portal-door. From the windows a lazy barge of clouds carried across the valley. A single twist of the doorknob to Buena Suerte…

“You will do no such thing.” Naida jumped and spun, in the doorway of the room was her father catching her contemplating sneaking away. She couldn’t look at him directly, the demigod woman ached from the cruelty of the last thing the kin-god had said to her. 

“I was in Buena Suerte when Reighleif lashed out. The villagers did nothing and it attacked them,” she divulged feeling defeated and stupid. Daedalus leaned against the wood of the doorframe.

“Who do you protect by lying to me?” Asked the kin-god. It was truth mangled into a lie. Naida resented that she played the Artificers game, and they’d won. The Artificers were poison, and poisoned anything they touched. “Has he put you up to something,” asked Daedalus and Naida was energized by a jolt of offense. 

“We haven’t spoken,” she stabbed.

Then he laughed at her. 

“Go with the sortie,” he said bluntly and left Naida standing in the hallway with her hand still clutching the door handle. 

The Village Conscience was a meeting of minds held every summer solstice. The meeting was made of distinct members of the Suertan community. Mother Gardner was to preside over this upcoming conscience, and a second Sister of the Parturist was to attend as well. Members of the Artisan Guild held four seats for the Taskmaster and three Master Artisans. Four members of the archaeological unit held space. Heads of household from the majority of families in the village reserved space, and nine representatives from the Farmers Guild packed out the Conscience.

Oh yeah, they were coming out in force. 

The solstice wasn’t until next week but a Conscience had to be held as soon as possible. Let the Farmers puff their chests, the village had bigger bugs to catch.  

A college…creature had come to Buena Suerte. A college spying device most likely. Nothing dropped ice into the stomachs of the Conscience like Artificers and their Calphic. Unsanctioned magic work, especially researching the enchant language was a serious offense, and the whole village was implicated if Artificers came snooping for their broken toy. 

A thousand miles and a mountain range stood between Buena Suerte and the ancient sorcerer cities. It was said that the Grand Artificer built his college with the aid of the great mountain spirits. The village was nothing compared to the enchant rich societies where hemishi mingled with kin-gods. So what the fuck were they trying to pull sending somethingout here? Buena Suerte was a secret worth keeping, and something didn’t smell right.

Evacuation of artisans had been in effect for most of the morning. Buena Suerte maintained a working relationship with some of the wandering nomad troupes in the area. Some members of the Conscience resented relying on Nomadics for assistance, but time was of the essence and they needed safe passage for over three dozen families into the desert. The Artisan Taskmaster Il’Defonso relayed that he enlisted the skills of Hedrick Lambent and his family to assist gettin’ people gone. The Moto craftsman would be using his fast moving prototype to transport the Guilds most valuable project materials, or maybe his pupil-son would be the one in the saddle? 

Every Suertan benefited from the Guilds work, deciphering the secrets of the enchant language, disassembling and studying the artifacts dug up by the archeological group… folks could be compelled to secrecy for the good of the village. If this was overkill, and no Artificer investigation was coming, then the Conscience would admit their paranoia. But Artificers rarely let a good deed go unpunished. 

Andres was nearing done. His face and hair were powdered with mineral shaving and motes blown in from the outside valve. He wasn’t listening nor gave any notice to the commotion building on the other side of the cellar wall. He was inside his own head, deeply tinted with the dream-permanence; thinking Dominion-shaped thoughts and making his work look neat. 

The cellar door banged open and it all scattered away. Andres talked over the pounding footfalls coming down the cellar stairs,

“Hey, they’re settling nice. I was thinking maybe we let them sit for the afternoon and have cool air in the evening…!” Andres had his final word shrieked from him as he was dragged from his spot under the pipe and lifted into the air by a giant. Upside down the giant blue man looked like a nightmare. 

“You’re covered in it!” The cobalt-skinned giant bellowed, lifting him to eye level with the casual strength no hemishi possessed. What he had said went over Andres’s head. 

“Good god!” Rycroft practically fell down the stairs to reach them. “Kin-god, your rage is mighty and spirit hardy…um,” the old farmer could find no other way to say it, “put the boy down!”

“Farmer, be quiet,” said the giant. 

Kin-god? Ah fuck, I know who this is.

“Daedalus..!” Andres was under the impression that kin-god was listening and pleaded. Rycroft fled upstairs, and Andres felt a stitch at his neck rip. 

Daedalus yanked on the chain linked to the fixture in the wall, and made a snarling sound as the brittle loops crumpled on his hand. The lift gate looked like it hadn’t bee raised in years, the rails inlaid in the stone crackled as Daedalus forced the door up and stepped into the Suertan sun. Andres was in the middle of saying some bullshit about how good it was to see him, then he left Daedalus’s hand and landed in the dirt. 

Air gone from his lungs and his eyes adjusting, Andres became aware of the motley crew of villagers gathered outside to see this mess. There was Reynolds who looked pale, Il’Defonso’s assistant from the Guild, and number of village guard, two of which hauled Andres to his feet.

“Save your bile for the court, Methinks I’ll break you into pieces as recompense,” Daedalus spit venomous, bringing down the Rycroft household’s gate with swiftness and a bang. 

“Didn’t Nadine talk to you?” The fool boy wheezed remembering Naidas name wrong. It didn’t help his case.

“Keep him,” Daedalus commanded, and turned to speak with a harassed looking man in a blue tunic, a guard captain then. Andres’ heart thunked.

“Whats happening?” He asked the men holding him, becoming very aware of the slack way his t-style shirt hung on his body and at being covered in mineral dust. The guards shifted uncomfortably. 

“Daedalus wants you for trial,” the guard to his right said in a clipped voice. “Take you for destroying the kin-gods property.”

“Lucky me,” Andres chirped, but the guards squeezed him. 

“We’re trying to keep you from being annihilated,” the right guard said.

“For real, he wants to kill you for what you did,” lefty guard said.

Senor Rycroft was needing to be physically restrained by a member of the guard, loudly protesting Andres’ arrest.

“Il’Defonso and the Village counsel want to hold your trial at the Conscience, ‘better protecting you,” the left guard said. 

“Really?” Andres said. The two men exchanged looks.

“Should you live, you’ll be jailed and you’re Questing days will be over,”  lefty guard said.

“You’ll be lucky if ‘Defonso lets you sweep the floors. You underestimate how much trouble you’re in Huff,” The right guard said. Something in the youths stomach turned over.

“Tonight,” Daedalus said ending an exchange with the captain and Il‘Defonsos assistant. “Jail him,” he barked to the guards before turning away, his long cloak cutting in the air. Rycroft was already gone, taken away by the village guard for causing too much of a scene. People had begun to notice Daedalus and a gang of beholden villagers knotted in front of the street. The kin-god spared a withering look for Andres before the river of people parted in his wake. The odd pupils of the kin-gods eyes inspired deep despair.

The representatives of the Artisan Guild visibly relaxed at Daedalus’ leaving, the guard captain looked like he wanted to beat Andres. He cut a motion to his men. 

From the vibrations of the little bones in Il’Defonsos ear, he made out the voice of someone. 

“‘Task I’m listening, go ahead.”

“Buggy is that you? How’s your daddy?”

“Alright, we’re using a lot of water cooling the housing down. We’re fixing to come back around in about fifteen minutes.” Hedrick’s kid sounded spittin’ like him. 

“Stay there, don’t bring that thing ‘round town. We’ve got ‘kin-god in our business now.”

There was a pause on the other end of the stones. 

“Didn’t those ‘flyers say they wouldn’t be here until tomorrow?”

“Daedalus is here today, mad as all ‘Well. Fucking almost killed Andres and got Tomas arrested. ‘Conscience is working to dry things off, you stay gone from this, y’all have done enough.”

The stones buzzed. 

“What’s going on with Andres?” Hedrick’s kid asked.

“We’ve got him. Daedalus is demanding justice, we don’t know how to give him that,” the Taskmaster said in a resigned sort of way. 

“I’m coming down,” came after a buzz and the stones went dead. 

Cricket drank a canteen of water and inhaled a pepperchop and tomato sandwich. A small table was set up for using the “talking” stones away from the noise. ‘Took a little practice making out the vibrations of the smooth, oblong items to ‘hear what you needed to hear coming from the other set. 

They’d set up a camp on the mesa several miles east from the village. The mirage of Buena Suerte sizzled, a sprawl of buildings, green, and the pillared tops of the First Parturist and Artisan Guild. The east mountains were purple against the cloudless sky. His father lay underneath the nine-hundred pound ‘art project shaded under the awning, barking out notes that his mother took down for their records. All deeply tanned, densely freckled, the young Lambent was growing taller still than both his tree-like parents. His nickname was as old as he was, Hedrick II arrived in this world quiet as a cricket at dusk. 

Hedrick Sr. maneuvered his berth from under the vehicle, splattered in lubricant and smelling of ozone. The swarthy Moto was beaming as he ripped away his goggles, he looked like a green raccoon covered in the botanical emissions from the engine. 

“Hot, hot. What’s the ‘saddle-heat?” He said in his nomad-touched drawl.

“82, pretty warm.” Milan Lambent relayed in agreement. Cricket swallowed a mouth of loamy water.

“Felt warmer,” he said setting down the canteen next to the “talking” stones and joined his parents at the prototype auto. The hulking mess of piping and housings for the mechanics radiated heat. A good-natured chuckle came from his father,

“’Drink another water Buggy,” he clapped his son on the shoulder and swiped a rag to wipe his face. Helpful souls from the Emrula guided folks into the grotto communities deeper into the valley. The Nomadics gladly took up the village crisis for an IOU. Wind was picking up which was good for beating the heat, but that also meant folks not used to the elements were buffeted until they reached the shelter.

“What did ‘Defonso say?” Milan asked turning to a new page of her pad. Wind whipped the canvas walls of their basecamp. The more level headed of the Moto couple, both her and Hedrick were graduates of the artisan program out east with the nomadic cities. The Lambent duo found themselves in odd standing with their colleagues within the larger troupes of the Desert and their commitments to Buena Suerte. The nomad troupes that relished in their independence had reservations on the “depot village”, a moniker that the Suertans resented. But now the Conscience was asking for favors and Hedrick wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to gather field data.

“I’m thinking I go back, ‘check on Andres,” Cricket said, Hedrick was nonplussed but his mother leered him.

“Buggy,” she insisted.

“The Taskmaster said to stay put, there’s a kin-god ‘come to town,” Cricket acquiesed and the Motos took on a spooked look. You’d be stupid to not fear the kin-gods, especially Daedalus and his moods. The greater cities of Khatru followed their College doctrines and what have you, but here in the high desert the blazing sun would set, and calphic-lamps would glow their pink halos and Buena Suerte would be alive; and its children would learn to weave greater magics than those who came before. Why would the gods give man fire only to ask for it back? 

Hedrick and Milan held their eyes of silent correspondence.

“Go then,” Crickets dad said at the same time as Milan said,

“We stay.”

Milan rounded on her husband.

“No he will not! Hedrick!” She shrieked. He stood with his burly arms crossed; with quick fingers she plucked a hair from his forearm. Her husband of twenty-two years cursed in surprise and pain and they shared another moment of silent correspondence.

“He didn’t do anything wrong, I just want to check if he’s okay,” Cricket said, not knowing how his parents admired his naiveté. If a hemishi was in that kin-gods crosshairs there was little to be done for them. Hedrick cleared his throat. 

“Look, ‘yolks already setting,” He motioned to the west, the high desert would drop almost 25 degrees after sunset. The Motos family broke camp and spoke no more about it.