The Mark of the Dragonfly Read Free Page B

the trade offices and multistory dwellings for Consortium representatives. The columned pavilion separated the two parts of the town like bars. Piper looked toward the center of town and saw Arno Weir standing next to an open metal door set into the ground.
    He saw her approach and pulled his lips back in a gap-toothed smile. “There’s my little machinist! Have you finished working on my steam engine yet?” As he spoke, he crossed her name off a list he clutched in his left hand.
    The population of the town was constantly changing, so it was hard to keep track of people and make sure they got to the shelter, but Weir knew everyone. He ran a general store out of his house and could tell you—for a price—which were the fairest traders at the market. If the town had been big enough to have a mayor, Weir would have been it. He was also one of Piper’s best customers.
    “It’s going to take me another week,” Piper told him, “and it’s going to cost you double.” That engine was a clunky little beast, more trouble than it was probably worth, but Piper loved a challenge. Not that she’d ever admit that to Weir. If he thought she was having too much fun tinkering with the machines, he’d try to make her work for free. Piper
never
worked for free.
    Weir clicked his tongue and put on a morose expression. “You trying to cheat me again, Piper? What would your father say?”
    “He’d tell you you’re a bad actor,” Piper said. “You forgot to say it was a smaller model—the ones used on short-range, semi-rigid supply gliders. Those things are twitchy—don’t work right half the time—and you know it. You also conveniently forgot to mention that there were sarnun stretch coils all over it.”
    “No, no, no, I didn’t see anything like that—”
    Piper crossed her arms and smothered a grin. She couldn’t help it. She loved a good bargaining match, and she also enjoyed making Weir squirm. “Come on, Weir, you know this isn’t my first dance. You stripped the coils off, but the chemicals leave traces everywhere. You can’t miss them. They smell like dog vomit.”
    “Do they really?” Weir said, dropping his innocent expression. “I mean—Aw, darn it, Piper!”
    “Look, you know I like a good chemical accelerant as much as the next girl, but if you add too many seasonings, it spoils the soup,” Piper said. And really, it was shameful to muck up a perfectly good machine with chemicals and embellishments to make it go faster and run longer than it ought to. Why couldn’t people learn to be more respectful? “More time, more money, or I can bring the engine back tomorrow and we’ll call the deal off,” she said.
    “Not so hasty!” Weir cried, putting extra mournfulness in his tone. Piper rolled her eyes. “How can I argue with you? You’re magic with the machines. I’ll give you twenty extra and another week. Fair?”
    Piper nodded curtly. Normally she would have held out for more, but she wanted to shut him up. The last thing she needed was Weir praising her—loudly—in public about her talents. Just like Micah and that stupid watch. There wasn’t anything special about being a good machinist. Keeping her customers happy kept food in her belly, so she had to be good at her work. That was all there was to it.
    “Move on,” said a deep voice behind Piper. “You’re holding up the line.”
    “Sorry,” Piper said, glancing over her shoulder. A guard wearing the blue livery of the Trade Consortium frowned at her. The frown emphasized his long mustache and saggy cheeks. A hound-dog look. He wore a revolver at his belt—you didn’t see many of those in the north, where iron was scarce—and a crossbow on his back.
    The Trade Consortium was an independent organization sanctioned by the Merrow Kingdom to keep order in the scrap towns by settling disputes. They also hired men to make sure the scrappers didn’t fight each other over what they took from the harvesting fields. The more scrappers