Tales of the Hidden World Read Free Page A

least ally. And, far too often, vice versa.
    The Armourer closed his eyes to rest them, just for a moment. He felt awfully tired. It seemed like he always felt tired, these days. The work never ended, no matter how much you put into it. Even if you worked every hour God sent, and then some, trying to keep up with the family’s demands. Knowing a good man could die, out in the field, if you didn’t get just the right weapon or gadget to him, in time. The Armourer had considered retiring now and again. But it wasn’t like there was anybody ready to step up and replace him. No one he’d trust to be up to the job, and its responsibilities. No one who could protect all the good men and women out in the field, the way he did. And besides, if he did retire, what would he do with himself?
    He forced his eyes open and sat up straight in his chair, grunting loudly at the effort involved. He rummaged through his desk drawers, until he found a fresh packet of Chocolate Hobnobs. Best cookies in the world. He cut open the package with a handy switchblade, scattered half a dozen Hobnobs across his desktop, and then picked one up and dunked it carefully in his tea mug. He stirred the cookie around a few times. A mug that provided you with tea at always just the right temperature was definitely one of his better inventions. Now, if he could only create a packet of Hobnobs that was constantly refilling itself . . . Put it on the To Do list. The Armourer bit carefully into the tea-soaked cookie. Marvelous. One of the life’s more important little pleasures.
    His computer made a loud self-important noise to let him know he had an important message coming in. The Armourer glared at the machine till it shut up.
    “Well?” he said.
    The computer monitor turned itself on and presented him with an urgent e-mail from the Matriarch. Who had clearly decided it would be more diplomatic, and probably safer, to address him from a distance. The e-mail wanted to know why he was so behind on so many important projects. Including the much awaited and anticipated Boojum Projector. The e-mail then reminded the Armourer that he had promised the family the following important items (there followed a depressingly long list) that should have been ready for field testing by now. That Matriarch wanted him to know she was very disappointed in him. The Matriarch didn’t want to have to take responsibilities away from him, and she really didn’t want to have to. . . . The Armourer got bored with the message, even while he was reading it, and deleted the e-mail, before he got to the barely veiled threats he knew would be coming at the end. The monitor screen shut itself down. The Armourer smiled briefly. It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard it all before. It would all be ready when it was ready, and not before. The Matriarch should know that. He’d told her often enough. But that was mothers for you; they always believed their sons could do anything.
    He went back to looking around the Armory. Packed full of lab assistants, eagerly risking their lives and sanity in the pursuit of knowledge and things that went bang. So many young men and women . . . half of whom he didn’t recognize, or remember. Hell, he didn’t even know what half of them were working on. It was a big place, there was a lot going on . . . But there was a time he would have known. When he would have known all their names and faces, and what they were up to. It was just . . . there had been so many lab assistants, down the years. So many come and gone, risen to greatness or sent to an early grave. He was getting used to middle-aged men coming up to him in the hall, greeting him with loud voices and hearty handshakes, expecting him to remember them from when they’d briefly worked for him, during their time in the Armory. Before leaving, to do something more important for the family. The Armourer always smiled and nodded, and assured them that of course he remembered, but mostly he didn’t. The