#willing to give me an unofficial accommodation? i won’t always be allowed to wait it out! and that could have serious repercussions!

[longneckreach]

Lightning Rod

“Sir?” Alumette bounced and weaved anxiously at the big Wildclaw’s side. “Did you want to look at the chainmail repairs you ordered, sir?”

She dodged the retaliatory snap of teeth, and managed to make it look accidental.

“Idiot! Can’t you tell I’m busy?” he snarled.

“You look very busy, sir,” Alumette acknowledged, twitching her ears back apologetically as she dropped to all fours. “I can tell you’re taking the guards their dinner and I wouldn’t want to annoy you later, when you’re off-duty and trying to relax. So I thought, maybe you might want to get it over with now, instead of—”

His sickle claw twitched, and she cut herself off with a polite cringe.

“You did say you’d be very angry if you had to wait longer than tonight,” she whispered.

“Fine.” The Wildclaw set his heavy pail of stew down with ill grace. “Get it fast.”

“Yes sir, right away sir.” Alumette bobbed her head so fast she gave herself motion sickness. “Oh! Here, sir.” She grabbed the stained leather tarp covering her materials and hauled it over the top of the bucket. “To keep the dust out.”

He didn’t react except to roll his eyes, and followed her to the back of her little unofficial area. Alumette didn’t have a space of her own, exactly; she was a prisoner, really a slave in everything but name. But since they’d started to view her as a convenient source of small repairs she’d found it useful to have a central location where they could usually count on finding her; it made them less angry when they finally did. 

Her “spot” was—okay, it was actually what had once been the trash pit. Slightly to the right of, to be precise. That way she could scavenge and salvage whatever got thrown out in order to make her repairs. It was nearer the warmth of the cooking fires than she would ever otherwise have been able to get, too—the smell wasn’t so bad once you got used to it.

(That was a lie. The smell never got better. But she didn’t freeze to death either, and nobody wanted to spend much time loitering near her, so it served a purpose. She really, really wanted a long shower.)

It wasn’t a large space, but it let her keep her materials and projects organized and accessible. So it was very easy to find the chainmail tunic she’d been repairing for the Wildclaw whose name she couldn’t remember.

Impatient, he used a wing to push her aside and shook it out.

“You said there wasn’t enough darksteel to replace the broken links,” he snapped immediately.

Alumette’s ears pricked forward, eager despite herself. “There wasn’t, sir,” she said. “See? Look closer. I didn’t have darksteel, but I was able to find the materials for Mr Bladewing to blacken standard steel. It’s not a perfect match, but I thought you might like it better.”

“Cosmetic,” the Wildclaw grunted, but he seemed less angry already. “Not worth the time you wasted on it.”

“I managed to collect the reagents before Mr Bladewing reached your tunic in his queue,” Alumette assured him. “I know your time is very valuable. Are there any issues with the stitching where the mail connects to the leather? I reinforced the seam with shed Imperial antler, but some people don’t like the added bulk.”

The Wildclaw felt along the reinforcements, but it was clearly just for show. “Good enough. Not just a pretty face. Gods know you’ve had the time to do it right, though. Take it to my tent.” He gave a vicious, mocking grin. “Feel free to wait there.”

“Yes, sir.” Alumette wavered. “Sir, would you like to take it now? I could take the dinner pail out to the Pit. Then you could be finished for the evening.”

She got a hard, suspicious look. “Yeah? And what’s got you so accommodating, brat? Carrying secrets? Weapons? You stay away from the other prisoners unless you want to join them for good. You’ve got no reason to be near the Pit, your meatshield’s not there. And he won’t be again, either.”

Alumette allowed her pain to show as she shrank away.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that I know my brother isn’t coming back.”

He bared his teeth at her. “I knew you were up to something. It’ll go worse for you if you don’t tell me what it is.”

“I just…” She let her voice tremble. “I’m going to need all the friends I can get.”

One of the other guards had said that to her once. A different Wildclaw. But they were all pretty much the same.

What mattered was that her lie worked. The guard’s suspicion faded into derisive amusement, which was exactly what she wanted.

She tilted her ears forward, looking up at him hopefully. “I’ve heard the guards complaining about that delivery, sir. I know it’s long and boring. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? You could eat early yourself and relax. Or—or I could bring dinner to the Pit, and then—if you wanted me to bring you your armor afterward, so you...wouldn’t have to carry it…”

The Wildclaw got that glint in his eye again, baring his teeth in a way somehow less friendly than a growl. “Subtle. I won’t give you protection, lightning rod. Bring that armor tonight anyway, unless you want to make enemies instead of friends. And take the pail out to the guards, if you can even lift it.”

Pretending to miss the viciousness under the words, Alumette brightened and twitched her head in some kind of salute.

She dove under the nearest corner of the tarp, and prayed.

This was the hard part. Oh, not the slight-of-hand; she was a tinkerer, anything that required clever paw work was second nature. And not the design, either, that had been easy. The hard part was deciding which deity to pray to.

In the end she prayed quickly to the Stormcatcher, because she was born under his mark, and because her entire plan hinged on the mass of wires and junk contained in a pilfered slop bucket that no one but her would ever have noticed, tucked under its filthy weatherproof tarp next to the garbage pit. And the wooden bowl she’d fitted perfectly inside it, a false top hiding her Plan inside.

(She made a point of grabbing the full dinner pail between her teeth, so that as she lifted, the Wildclaw would see her holding it; so that, as she turned and the tarp fell back into place, she would create a tent effect with her horns, where no one could see exactly what she was doing. She had planned this. She had done a lot of thinking.)

She prayed to the Shadowbinder, for just a few seconds of cover in which to pull off the kind of trick she’d never attempted before, the kind of acting she’d never needed to be good at. 

(With the tent hiding her actions, she quickly set the pail down and flicked her tail, sending a basket of odds and ends rolling. Just loud enough to be audible, she mumbled, “ow.” In the few seconds in which her observer would assume she was tending a bruise, she grabbed a ladle she’d hidden and tipped the top fourth of the stew into the false top of the Plan.)

To the Windsinger, the god of freedom. The Arcanist, because he knew her brother, and also because she was going to do something flashy and really stupid and he seemed relevant.

(She left the dinner pail tucked between two crates where it wouldn’t leave a silhouette, and dragged the Plan, now overflowing with stew, back into the sunlight.)

And one final prayer—in the part of her mind not whirring and sparking and calculating how to pull this off, she called to the Plaguebringer.

Part of that was just polite, after all—Alumette was on her land. But she was also pinioned and hungry and scared, and she didn’t want to die. Alumette didn’t really pay much attention to religion, but she did remember what other people told her. And she’d heard from Plague dragons in the past that their goddess might be ugly and vicious, but she was also the patron of dragons who wanted to survive and were willing to fight for it with everything they had.

Hello, ma’am, she thought awkwardly as she maneuvered the Plan out from under the tarp. I don’t know if we’ve met, but I’m trying very hard, and so is my brother. I don’t think you really help people, exactly. But if I’m wrong, I could use some help. I know I’m not really one of yours, though, and some of these dragons are. I really do think I’m fighting harder than they are. They’re awfully lazy, ma’am, no offense. If you just could please not help them, I won’t ask you to help me, if that sounds fair. I really think I can do this on my own. I just need a chance.

She managed to extract herself from the Wildclaw guard without him noticing anything, and began the long walk toward the Pit as the sun went down.

Belatedly, she remembered her manners, and thought in the vague direction of the Wyrmwound: Thank you for your consideration.

From there, the Plan went...well. She was trying not to jinx anything. 

It was actually pretty simple to talk her way around the Pit. 

The first pair of guards were the toughest; they were the ones positioned at the controls to lower the bridge into the arena, without which nobody could get out, so they had to be smart and observant. And she wasn’t a good actor, so she didn’t try to lie to them. She just asked them, politely, whether they wanted the good stew or if they wanted to eat right away.

They hassled her over it, of course; but she just blinked in feigned surprise and said she didn’t mean to annoy them, ma’am, sir. It’s just that (and cue hunched shoulders, rapid blinking) I got clawed really bad last week for offering the head guards the first serving instead of saving them for last, ma’am. I know it’s hotter now, but the really good meat settles near the bottom as it gets stirred by serving it out, so the last servings are better. I’m not disrespectful ma’am, I swear, I just didn’t know until last week so now I ask.

She’d been prepared for either answer, but it was still a relief when—always looking to get one over on each other—they fell for it and said they’d wait.

The next guard she actually knew; he was the one who kept dropping all those hints about protection and friends that made her scales want to crawl off her body to get away from him. For that one, she dropped her eyes shyly and claimed to be giving him a bigger portion. He was willing enough to believe it.

Aluetted tugged hastily at the cape of the next guard in the rotation, hastily whispering, “Don’t take any. I saw Spinner put something in it when she heard Erund was out here. I tried to tell Adder but she said she’d—just please don’t take any, they’ll blame me!”

And so it went. About halfway around, the guards in the rotation started to notice the pail was still full, and Alumette could stop trying to act, which was a relief. She could just look anxious and unhappy, which was very easy right now in the current moment all things considered, and tell them she didn’t know what was going on but when she told the shift leaders what the stew was they refused to eat it, which was weird, and I don’t know why they laughed when I said I’d see if the others wanted any, that was weird too...but there’s plenty of it, if you maybe want a double portion?

For some reason, none of them were taking her up on it.

And all around the Pit, getting easier and easier as it got dark, unnoticed beneath a Spiral’s tangled body and Alumette’s own restlessness and the clink and flash of her chains, a copper wire spooled from the bottom of her slop barrel.

She’d carefully tarnished and blackened the first several hundred yards of it, so that no light would glint off the surface in her wake, counting on sunset to save her later on. Carrying the pail between her teeth gave her a few precious seconds to tug the slack loose with her paws, and trample the wire into the dust with her hind feet. So far, so good. So far no one had seen it. She’d found that if she kept talking, and moving, and generally being blindingly bright and also nervous, people didn’t notice what was happening near her feet.

Maybe she shouldn’t be a clockmaker, Alumette thought idly as she circled the Pit. Maybe she should be a thief! That would be funny. Aspis probably wouldn’t think so, but she could make him laugh about it if she tried.

If he came back.

No time to worry about that. She was almost back to where she’d started.

The extreme end of the thin copper wire she’d been laying had been kicked under the shift lead’s tail, with a black iron fishhook on one end. Alumette wasn’t exactly a talented fisherdragon, but she didn’t have to aim very well. It had snagged on the chain for the bridge pulleys. From there, she’d been following close along the edge of the arena where she could wrap her wire around the pegs where the jagged net over the arena was anchored to the earth. 

“Hi!” she called, setting the pail down about fifty feet from the shift leaders. Carefully, she moved her paws from the rubber-padded handle and placed them against the bare iron bands running down the sides. “I saved you guys some of the big pieces!”

“You better have!” The reply wasn’t angry or aggressive, but it wasn’t quite joking either. “Never doing this again, I’m starving. There can’t be that much of a difference in the taste.”

“Get over here, lightning rod,” her partner agreed. “Or I’m taking a bite out of you, too!”

“Yes, sir,” Alumette chirped. “Just a minute. It’s still heavy, I think there’s a lot of marrow in these bones.”

The promise of a rich treat won her patience for the last few, precious seconds.

Alumette was a Lightning child by birth; but she’d never gotten any magical training. She could call up her element, of course, but not with any real power or consistency.

That was what engineering was for.

Electricity crackled along her spine, from the tips of her horns down along her wings and racing along the ridge of her back. A lot of it, too much, discharged from her tailtip. But more than enough power raced through her claws and into the iron bands of the slop bucket.

And from there, into the jumble of metal, wires, a silver bracelet she’d slipped from the pocket of a waistcoat she’d been set to mend, several feet of chain, and an only-slightly-rusted metal spring from a discarded mech that she’d spent the past week turning into a rudimentary, unstable electromagnet.

For a few terrifying seconds, there was nothing but a low, uninspiring hum.

And then copper wire began to glow.