The Girl From Out Of Town

By Matthew Farmer

Navarr, an office worker with a dead-end job in accounts, wishes for a more exciting life. And on the night before the big storm, that's exactly what he gets when Mizzell lands on his doorstep - beautiful, mysterious, and in desperate need.
Chased from the narrow cobbled streets of the big city, and its steam-powered golems with their mysterious new programming, now they are on the run from Ash and his band of Bounty Hunters. Pursued through the clouds in sky ships, with the threat of dragons, to the final confrontation in the mountains of the wild frontier. With sword and gun, Navarr will do anything to save his Girl From Out of Town.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Farmer
• Release date: Jul 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476185149

Matthew Farmer

A happily married Gemini, Matthew lives in the tempestuous city of Melbourne. He graduated with a Professional Writing & Communications Degree a long time ago, and like all writers, chose careers not at all related to writing. Now he has become a freelance copy writer and author. The Girl From Out of Town, while it is his debut published novel, is in fact the tenth novel he has written, thanks to the National Novel Writing Month. Once this series has been written and published he will go back and make his science fiction available for sale as well.

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The Girl From Out Of Town

By Matthew Farmer

Published by Matthew Farmer at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Matthew Farmer

Smashwords License Statement

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Book cover design by Scarlett Rugers Design 2012 – www.scarlettrugers.com

Editors:

Catherine Gracey: catherinegracey.com

Stephanie O'Connell: https://www.facebook.com/FigmentFriendlyEditing

Thank you to Vandal Hype for being my strongest outside voice and pushing me to this point. Thank you to my readers and editors- Catherine, Stephanie, Scarlett, Michelle, Ian, Alison, Katrina and Brodie.

Chapter 1

Zila wiggled her pinky finger in her ear. She tipped her head to the side and smacked it. I got mice in my head.

I can help you get rid of them, Yizhibo said, sliding a blade from his sleeve.

Zila muttered something about baiting them with cheese later, but took the hint from Yizhibo. She stood up and concentrated back on the stone in the middle of the chamber.

They stood in a sealed chamber, faceted like the inside of a jewel. Glyphs adorned the walls, glowing in power, feeding off the magical energy from the stone.

In the centre of this chamber, floating about a metre above a pedestal, was the stone. It was pitted and scarred, about the size of a big man's head and slowly spun on the spot.

They are coming, Yizhibo said quietly. He was an average built man, but he was particularly handsome, if a little pale of skin, dressed in the latest fashion with a great hairdo.

Zila patted down her leather skirts and focussed on the floating stone. She was a wild-eyed red-headed sorcerer. Most men found her attractive, until they were in her grasp. Then they found her quite mad and scary. Not all of these suitors escaped her embrace.

She clapped her hands above her head and rubbed them together vigorously. She chanted and hummed while she brought her hands down, palms up, out to her sides.

A tiny spot of green light danced on the surface of the stone. Quickly it turned into a arcs of green energy which writhed over the rough surface.

Zila reached out in front of her and grabbed the air with her fingers. With more chants she drew her hands apart as if drawing open curtains. A bright white light appeared on the stone, a rift, opening with the actions of Zila's hands. It grew in size until it was the heigh of a person. It formed above a set of well worn steps, leading down from the pedestal.

Keep it stable you crazy woman, Yizhibo said, tension in his voice.

From the rift stumbled a giant of a man, blue skinned and tattooed. He fell to his knees at the bottom of the stairs and was breathing heavily. Over each shoulder he had a number of woven bags, inside of which rattled a large number of glowing orbs.

Do not drop them! Yizhibo yelled. He stepped forward to catch them.

No! Zila snapped. Stand very still, or the rift closes and you lose your precious cargo.

Yizhibo growled at her but took a step back behind her.

We have resistance, the blue man said, slowly getting to his feet. His name was Dabb, a Mountain Man, and a slave.

Two ladies leapt through the portal, carrying bags with smaller orbs contained within. They pushed Dabb across the bridge which connected the portal to the chamber's wall, and to where Zila held the portal open. They chanced a brief look down to the cavern floor below them. They had walked the bridge countless times but the drop still made them nervous.

A hulk of a man with a leather bandanna covering his right eye stepped through next. He shook glowing white slime from his hand. Stupid demon muck. Had me a perfect Lymbo-head in my hands. But bring it here and it just turns to muck. He wiped the slime onto his top. His name was Khaldin, an ugly man but effective at killing things.

Two more figures stepped through. The tall and slender man, named Ash, wore a leather hat and long duster coat. He pointed his pistol back through the portal and fired off a lightning bolt.

The second man, larger than Ash by a good head and a half, was a pale skinned bulk of a man named Zotoga. He wore a silver visor on his eyes and a sneer on his face.

Close it, he yelled at Zila.

Straining against the powers surging between her and the stone, Zila lifted her arms upwards in an effort to clasp them above her head, but she was meeting resistance.

I said close it!

Strain was clearly showing on Zila's face as she tried to clasp her hands. Then with a whip like crack, her hands came together. The portal closed and she was thrown off her feet, crashing into Yizhibo who stood behind her. The others in the room were also knocked over, Dabb managing to catch the sack full of orbs and not break a one.

On the pedestal, standing in front of the floating stone, was a glowing blue form. It was slight in build with a distinct feminine shape. It looked around slowly, at the people in front of it, and at the walls around it. It saw Ash on the ground and started to approach. Its footsteps glowed blue and sizzled on the stone behind it.

Ash shook his head to clear his vision. He fumbled for his gun and raised it at this blue creature. He shot off a lightning bolt. The blue figure ducked out of the way effortlessly. The other members of the hunting party regained their footing and raised their weapons as well.

It looked up at the walls where Ash's shot struck. The wall was cracked. It opened its mouth and screamed, a bright blue flash blinding them all. Then it leapt at the wall and slid through the cracks.

What was that? Ash asked, looking to Zotoga. "Who was that?"

Zotoga had his nose raised as he searched for a scent. He then looked to Yizhibo.

You need to find it. Yizhibo said. Now.

I don’t know why you don’t just tell him, Veil said as he poked Navarr in the shoulder. The three of them sat at a table in the corner of the humid room. It was quiet enough so they could talk without having to yell. You simply walk up to him and say 'Larin, you stink. You need to bathe more'. You are not paid enough to sit in that office next to him day in and day out. There is not enough money in the world for anyone to have to put up with that.

Veil and Chyp laughed. Navarr joined in uncomfortably, but it was not as funny to him. Conversation seemed to inevitably end up around his job and his work mate, both of which he had been suffering with for many years.

I cannot simply tell a man he stinks, Navarr said. He drained his tankard and slowly put it down onto the rough-hewn wooden table. It is not the done thing. He stared at the glyph floating in the globe above their table, shedding a wavering light for them to see. It had been fading for weeks and Navarr could now stare at it without seeing spots. But they came to this bar for the prices, not the maintenance. And besides, my solution is simple and elegant.

What? Spraying a man with perfume every day? Making him smell pretty? Veil snorted and drained the last of his ale. No wonder you have as much trouble finding a woman as you do a job; you waste all the good scents on men.

Chyp laughed and clanked tankards with Veil. They both sounded empty.

Your round, Veil said to Chyp and handed him their tankards.

Well, the money is not a problem. I have a regular customer discount, Navarr said to himself. This brought more chuckles from Navarr's friends.

Chyp stood and went to get some more ale.

Navarr scowled. He was the lowest paid member of this troupe and yet had been at his job the longest. He was not starving, he had a small roof over his head and clothes on his back, even if both his roof and his clothes had holes in them and let the water in. But he was comfortable enough. Unlike Chyp and his well paid job at Royal Automatons, Navarr did not feel the need to have ten shirts of different colour and of the latest styles to wear to work. And unlike Veil, Navarr did not see the need to have clothes for the day time and then new clothes for the night time. His work suit was perfectly fine for working in the office and still be respectable enough for the pub at night.

I do change the scent each week, He said, more to himself. I had Larin smelling like Hearth Root this week, and next week I am thinking of Storm Roses.

You should spend this much thought on the ladies, Veil said with a wink.

If he could even get a lady, Chyp said, landing a tankard in front of each of them with some spillage.

Ha, funny, Navarr said, picking his drink up and taking a sip. He hoped the tankard would hide his scowl. He put it down with a disgusted look on his face. Is this from the bottom of the barrel? Yuck. I cannot drink that.

It puts hairs on your chest, Chyp winked at Veil and they laughed some more.

Well, I will not be drinking that. It is late and I must go.

Big day ahead tomorrow? Chyp asked.

It is close to the end of the month. I have a lot of consolidation to do on my books. It has been a busy month, I do not want any mistakes on my books when the bosses look at my work. Navarr puffed his chest out slightly, proud of his bookwork.

The smile dropped from Chyp's face. He became serious all of a sudden. You have been showing your bosses your bookkeeping skills for close to three years now, right?

Navarr nodded.

Why don’t you apply for a position in Research? Or the marketing team you keep telling us about? Lenzell and Associates must be rolling in coin since taking the market share from us. Look at Veil. He showed his bosses all his great work in The Yard, and now he has his own design team.

I have my own Glyph Worker, two sorcerers and a great team of Tinkers and alchemists, Veil said, the smile gone from his face as well.

You need to apply yourself, Chyp continued. "You need to be bold, be creative, show them that you are a brilliant person, and you are. You are my friend but you are also bright and smart and could be doing so much more."

Navarr nodded and looked away. He didn’t want to show them the resigned sadness in his face. He had applied for a transfer to Chyp's company, Royal Automatons and was rejected. He had secretly applied for positions in Research and in Marketing, all of which had come back, rejected. He even applied for a position in Veil's team, but was refused because he had no relevant skills. Meanwhile, Larin had been promoted from janitor a year ago and was now considered the equal of Navarr in the office.

Chyp cleared his throat to break the uncomfortable silence. I told you not to make yourself too valuable at your job. If you become too good at your job they will never be able to find a replacement, so they will never promote you.

Maybe you need to start making mistakes? Veil suggested. Stop becoming so good at your job? Rock the boat a little, get noticed by management?

Navarr laughed. What on earth could I do which would get me noticed by management? Or anybody?

We will think of something, Veil said, patting his friend on the shoulder.

And on that note I must take your leave. Navarr stood up, and shook the hands of his friends.

Shall we meet back here on Wednesday? Chyp asked.

Sure, Navarr replied.

No excuses, Veil said.

The only excuse I will accept is if it involves a woman, Chyp said, giving Veil a wink.

Ha ha, Navarr replied. He grabbed his hat and coat from the rack near the door and shrugged himself into them before going outside.

The wind was picking up. Popping his collar, he dug his hands deep into his pockets. He turned towards North End and ducked his head into the wind. The first storm of the season was nearly upon them. It could be felt in the air, the smell of water on the winds.

He stopped at the top of a hill and waited for two golems to trudge by. The heat from their furnaces warmed him briefly before the winds drilled their way inside his coat.

They were a couple of last year's models from Lenzell and Associates. They were a good reach taller than Navarr with their familiar rounded belly. The dragon stones sat in the 'belly', heating the water to steam which ran through the golem in veins, and then exhausted out of two pipes near the shoulders. The marketing department had determined that the rounder shape, while distinguishing them from the Royal Automatons line and their other competitors, also made them seem friendly and cuddly to the consumer, like a jolly old uncle.

Navarr never got that feeling when he saw them. To him they were just noisy, hot and dirty, coloured in the red and bronze and black colours of his company. Navarr could see gaps in the welds showing the prototype power plan introduced last year as well. The Cabal called it a control module, or the brain of the machine. Navarr just new it added several hundred Crowns to the price.

He was sure that if he checked the serial numbers he could tell who purchased them and when. Sometimes he wished he could create better designs. Why did they all have to have two legs and two arms and a head? People may feel more comfortable looking at a giant person, but to him, it was still oily and dirty, it wasn’t a living thing. Why couldn't the Tinkers come up with models based on cats or dogs? Other four legged beasts of burden? Or insect models perhaps? Surely the tiny size would require only the tiniest chips of dragon stone to be effective?

Navarr had suggested these to the Tinkers, but was told to go back to his cubicle and stick to his numbers.

He watched the two golems trundle down the street. They stopped at an intersection, turned to each other, which looked remarkably like they were discussing which way they should go. They both turned left and disappeared.

He crossed the street and continued on his way. He figured his knowledge of all models and serial numbers might have even put him in good stead for a customer service role. But that interview did not go well. He was described as not much of a people person, which he didn’t understand. Surely the service he provided his office in making Larin smell nice was a prime example of how he helped other people?

But no. Navarr had been stuck in Accounts and Inventory for close to three years. He had arrived in the city three years ago, and his first job was with Lenzell and Associates. And from there, where had he gone?

Finally he turned down his street in North End. Navarr lived in a neighbourhood which was almost middle class. His street backed onto a river. It smelled ripe and was a great place to dump rubbish, dish water and the occasional body.

He spied 'Charters Cartel Cartography and Curiosity Store'. His apartment was above this store and he spied the rickety staircase in the alleyway next to the shop. A couple of night lights were floating around the shop, but other than that it was quiet.

The acrid smell of the river made him sneeze as he climbed the stairs. He held his breath while putting his key into the door. He turned the cog and aligned a glyph. The door opened, he stepped in and closed it quickly. After the count of three he exhaled, and then breathed in clean air.

Quinnlon's Locksmith, he said as he tapped at the glyphs by his door. Fresh air, indoors, guaranteed. He recited the words from the poster. Sighing, he hung his hat and coat up by the door. Such a simple idea and yet it made him millions. I need one of those ideas.

He fell onto his bed without taking his shoes off.

Navarr reached out blindly towards the source of the annoying ringing noise. He waved his hand around but found nothing. He was forced to pull his head from under the covers and risk the bright morning light. It dazzled him for a moment and he grunted as the light pierced his brain and caused it to hammer.

It was hammering in time to his automaton alarm clock, funnily enough. Navarr flicked a release and the little man stopped hitting the bell, took a step back and stood 'at ease'. He sat up and took stock of his hangover. A little nauseous and the head ache, of course, but not too bad all things considered. He reached for 'Holly's Hangover Cure in a Bottle', a wicked alchemist's cure. He took three deep breaths and then a good nip from the bottle. His body slammed back onto the bed and twitched a few times before a fine mist evaporated through his pores.

Much better, he said as he sat up and towelled himself off. In between bites of jam on toast Navarr dressed in his dull grey suit. He reflected on the clothes his friends would be wearing today, and chose a brightly coloured tie as a compromise.

Being a Monday morning Navarr purchased a couple of fried lizards with barbecue sauce from Lepton's Fine Fare. The windows were fogged due to the warm, meaty air on the inside. On a good day you could smell this shop from the end of the street. On a bad day, even further. But they made a fantastic Ox burger with their special sauce, and Lepton was a friendly fellow once he got to know you.

He was halfway through his second lizard when he made his second stop on the way to work, Pendler's Lotions, Potions and Fine Assorted, a small store nestled between an undertaker and a bank. A bell tinkled as he entered. This shop was a far cry from the meatery Navarr had just visited. Quiet and dusty like a mausoleum, every step would set bottles and decanters tinkling against each other.

There's nothing good about those lizards on a stick. And if they ate a pick bug before they died then you're going to get pick sores.

Pendler could smell Navarr when he entered. Pendler had a very good nose. A small man with thinning grey hair, Pendler always smiled at people who entered. He loved people and he loved how they all smelled different.

And if I get pick sores then you'll be getting three sceptres a week for an ointment until they clear up. Navarr replied.

Ah, excellent point. Now what scent for Larin this week? I have a special on Peach Field for that sweet, dessert aroma. Oh, I know, how about this? I have developed this new scent, perfect for you in the office.

He handed Navarr a small bottle with a clear liquid in it. A small shake however showed tiny flakes of gold.

It is a very subtle mix of Pointer's Willow and Dusty Leaf.

Navarr opened the bottle and had a sniff. I don’t smell anything.

Precisely. You do, in fact, smell something, but it is so subtle you think you do not smell a thing. A few drops of this on Larin and he will now smell of almost nothing. I call it No Scent.

Navarr smiled. You are truly gifted,

Pendler gave a small bow. I do love my craft. Now, for three bottles I will ask two crowns.

Gifted and a little crazy. One crown four.

Two crowns, and I will give you a complimentary Sweet Water.

And an ointment of Griffin Salve.

Done. They shook hands and Navarr put a crown and twelve sceptres across Pendler's palm.

Sorry about the change. He grabbed the package and tipped his hat as he left the shop, already chewing on the remaining lizard.

It is getting colder and windier, Veil said as he joined Navarr heading up the street to the factory. Nice tie, by the way.

Good morning Veil, and thank you. Indeed, I think the storm is due very soon. When do you think the festival will begin?

A friend at the ports told me that there are grey clouds building in the south already. I think the storm will come through tonight or tomorrow morning. The regular storm lasts two or three days but I get a feeling that this storm is going to be bigger than normal.

A feeling eh? Navarr asked as he stepped around a crew of tiny street-cleaning golems. And that feeling didn’t come from any Wind Wardens did it? No? None touched by the elements?

Veil grunted and they both had a chuckle.

I do believe the sky-ships are already lashing down to ride out the storms, Navarr continued, So I agree with you. I'd believe the captains of those ships over someone claiming affinity with the winds any day.

Agreed. Could you imagine? Soaring through the clouds on one of those things?

No, not at all.

What, scared of heights? Is that’s what is stopping you from getting an office with a window view? Veil nudged him and winked.

Oh, no. I've been on one of those nice air ship rides around the city.

Oh, I hear that’s nice. Was it a date?

Yes.

And?

No, nothing came of it. I don’t mind those little rides around the city. But the thought of being out there, high above the plains, on one of those rickety boats? Any moment they could fall from the sky, and we don’t have wings you realise.

I've heard there are some people out there who do.

Oh, those crazy Valley People? Leather and feather contraptions. More of them die from falling than they do from old age.

The shadow of a late sky-ship arrival passed over them as they crossed the road and entered the gates to the factory, headquarters for Lenzell and Associates, purveyors of fine mechanical creations. It was generally called The Yard. Other people waved to them as they entered the main building. They all wore coloured scarves and the collars of their coats were up to protect them against the wind and cold.

Once inside, scarves were unwrapped and coats unbuttoned. All the talk was about the pending storm and when the festival would start. The money was on Sunday night with the storm lasting all week. Navarr was holding off his judgement, but he had a feeling it would be Friday.

Veil waved goodbye after arranging to meet for lunch, and went down to the workshops. Navarr envied him his job. There was movement and that feeling of satisfaction of building something. He created things, built them and saw them through to completion.

Navarr squeezed into an elevator with a load of other people and slowly rose to the third floor. The doors opened slowly to the sound of a door chime in desperate need of repair. Where once before it would make a happy ding sound, now it warbled and strained a slowly dying dong. It made Navarr's mood that much more morose to start the day.

He passed through the kitchen and continued onto the office floor. It was divided into a maze of cubicles, there was already a buzz of people working. There was also the buzz of tiny golems running around the office, picking up rubbish or delivering messages. He caught the flash of copper and bronze between cubicles. He made his way into the middle of the cube farm, hung his coat and hat on a little rack and slipped the bottle of No Scent into his hand.

Larin had arrived early and had already started work. He glanced up at Navarr with that snide look of his. Larin was a gentle fellow, lanky hair, and he sighed a lot. But he also had an odour disorder. He assured people he showered every day, but it didn’t fix the problem.

Rather than fight the battle of getting him clean, Navarr had switched tactics to making Larin smell better with scent potions. A couple of drops, on the crown of the head, each morning, and he would smell much nicer for the rest of the day. This tactic was approved by everyone who knew the situation, including Navarr's direct manager.

Navarr palmed the No Scent potion, leaned in to see what Larin was doing and sprinkled a couple of drops onto his thick hair. So the day began.

The ground was wet when Navarr left that afternoon. It wasn’t raining now, but he could feel the weight in the air. He could smell water, along with the other chemicals, in the air. The brief shower had already started to clean the city. Dirty streaks ran down the sides of buildings, street lights glowed just a touch brighter.

As he walked down the cobbled streets, putting the factory behind him, he picked up on the anticipation in the air. The wind had stilled, the street noises had dulled, it was if the whole city was waiting for it to rain. Every citizen was waiting for the first storm of the season, the one that would cleanse it from dirt and pollution.

Navarr burst into Lepton's take away shop, encouraged by a strong gust of wind and a few big drops on the back of his head. People seated at tables along the side wall grumbled at Navarr, demanding that he shut the door quickly. A few daily papers scattered off the front counter onto the black and white tiled floor, some serviettes danced in the air and then joined the papers on the floor.

Navarr slammed the door closed behind him and sheepishly picked up the papers. The storm had almost started. It was aggravating everyone. Someone had even yelled to the skies to get it over with.

I had bets on this Saturday, Lepton said from behind the greasy counter, his smile shining through his thick beard. Guess I was right, eh?

I still think it will be Friday. I think this will be a big storm, but will blow itself out quickly

Well, I hope so too. Lepton spat on the ground. There is a lot of shit in this town which needs cleaning out, you understand?

No, I don’t, Navarr said, leafing through one of the newspapers he had picked up. He often knew what Lepton was talking about. Lepton didn’t trust foreigners. The dusty skins from the south and the cold skins from the north. The lazy farm hands from the steppes, or even the wild people who eked out a living in the wild forests. Navarr was from the west, out in the lakes country, but Lepton liked him because he was educated, he would know what Lepton was talking about.

... and they're making far too many golems. Lepton slid a greasy ox burger into a sour dough bun, slapped a slice of cheese on top and then smothered it in their special sauce. Then, with practised skill it was slid into a paper bag and then twisted to seal it in.. I swear, I look out my window and every third or fourth person is a golem, clunking by on some business or other. They scare the children with their steam and break the cobble stones with their heavy feet. How many golems have you people made this year?

Only around five thousand or so. Nowhere near the population of the city. You just live on a popular thoroughfare. This is why you see so many golems.

Seems to me you could hire some of those useless street rats from the South Ward to do the same job.

I doubt the street rats could do the heavy lifting of our newer industrial units.

Messengers then, what about that?

"Can you guarantee that a message you trust to a