Copper Cove: Tabitha Miles, #1

By Robert Dahlen

Copper Cove, city of marvels powered by magic and steam, is abuzz over the coming of the new rail line. Crafter Tabitha Miles would love to be on the first trip of the Velessan Express, but there’s work to be done. Staying awake past midnight to make ends meet, difficult clients, runaway automatons, guild enforcers, all just another typical day for her.

Tabitha’s latest commission seems like just another job at first but then she meets newspaper reporter Sophie Haverford and falls into a web of conspiracy and murder. Can Tabitha unravel the mystery, prevent a disaster, and win Sophie’s heart in time for tea?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Dahlen
• Release date: Sep 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386250951

Robert Dahlen

Fantasy novelist, all-around wisecracker and penguin aficionado, Robert Dahlen lives in northern California with his wife, numerous aquatic waterfowl, and a tablet loaded with e-books and works in progress. He is hopefully working on another Monkey Queen book even as you read this.

Book preview

Chapter One

The trick isn’t in hitting it. The trick is in knowing how hard to hit it.

Perhaps I should explain what I mean. To do that, I need to tell why I was in Sarge’s flat early that morning.

Sergeant Edwish Balden used to be in the police force, but he got struck in the wrong place by a crossbow bolt during a raid. Now, he can’t walk. He’d been one of the good ones, and all Copper Cove gave him for his work and his sacrifice were a powered wheeled chair and a small pension. The chair was a nice thought, but it broke down two or three times a year, and when that happened, Sarge was house-bound.

Sarge has a neighbor who looks out for him. When the chair breaks, she gets a message to the staff at Henry’s Crossing. They pass the message on to me when I go in for a cuppa, and I go round and fix it for Sarge.

It was the same problem that it had time before last—a gear in the motor was sticking. The last time, a drop of oil had worked, but this time I bit the bullet and replaced the gear. It would cut into my profit from the job, but it was worth it.

I closed up the chair and recharged the tank, drawing dwimm from the magosphere and infusing it into the water. I stood up, wiped my hands, and said, That should do it, Sarge. Give it a go.

Sarge nodded as I wheeled the chair over to his couch. He lifted himself up and swung into the chair, careful not to disturb Darjeeling, who was lying on the armrest as she slept off a big bite of raspberry kringle. He settled in and tapped the start button on the left armrest.

We could hear the faint whirring as the gears started to move, but the wheels didn’t budge. Thought you said that would do it, Miles! Sarge said.

Cogs and gears, I muttered. I moved behind the chair, knelt down and touched the back. My quick sensing didn’t feel anything out of place. The damn thing should have worked.

This is where the hitting came in. I was guessing that all the chair needed was a good hard smack. I let my sensing flow through the chair as I pulled my biggest wrench from my toolbelt.

I tapped several spots on the back lightly with my forefinger. When it hit one spot on the left, I nodded and held my finger next to it. I hoisted my wrench and carefully swung it at the spot, trying my best to hit it just hard enough. Too hard, and I’d knock something loose and have to start over. Not hard enough, and I’d have egg on my face.

The wrench struck the chair, and the gears roared to life. Sarge had to hit the off button to keep the chair from rolling through the door of his flat. What the devil did you do to this? he said, trying to hold back a grin.

I stood up, spun the wrench around in my hand, and stuck it back in my toolbelt. What do you think, Sarge? I said. I fixed it.

I should have charged Sarge more. Ms. Higgins, my landlady, raised my rent last month, and it seems like everything gets more expensive every time I go to the store. Life in Copper Cove.

However, I'd read in the Courant that the city council still hadn't voted on the latest proposal to raise pensions. Sarge, and a lot of people like him, were having to make what little they had do more. I knew he had to give up a few small things as it was to get his wheeled chair repaired. It would be cruel to pressure him into coughing up a few more coins.

Sarge, as he always does, tried to slip me a little extra. As I always do, I made him take it back; he had given Darjeeling a bit of his kringle, and that was enough of a gratuity. I woke Darjeeling up, and as she curled up on my shoulder, I said goodbye and headed out of his flat and down Becker Street to get something to eat and a cuppa at Henry’s, and see if anyone else needed my services today.

I’m Tabitha Miles, and I’m an independent crafter. When someone in Copper Cove has something big or small that has to be fixed, and they don’t want to go through the guilds or can’t afford to, I take care of it. The guilds call me a renegade, and want me and others like me to join them, but I’m not interested. There are too many regulations and too many fees, and I hate their dress codes.

I wear button-down shirts, grey herringbone tweed trousers with bracers, boots with short heels and a flat cap that matches my trousers. I like how I dress, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks about it, and I’ll be damned if I ever get forced into wearing a skirt or a robe. Look at what the women who work for the guilds are required to wear. I’d rather wear something with some bloody pockets, thank you very much.

I was born and raised in Copper Cove. It’s one of the biggest cities on the Crescent Sea, but it first gained its reputation as the center of crafting some fifty years ago. Following the discovery of how dwimm could be diffused in specially-treated water to create magical batteries, the city’s crafters began to create devices and machines that were amazing, useful, and only occasionally deadly. Early working arrangements and rivalries led to the founding of the two guilds, the Clockwork Consortium and the Fellowship of Brass, that wound up in an uneasy alliance that controlled the building and maintenance of those devices in the city.

In theory, only those who were properly certified members of the guilds were supposed to repair their devices. In practice, enough people distrusted the guilds, or couldn’t afford them, to keep independent crafters in business, as long they did so very quietly. It didn’t make me rich, but it paid the rent and kept me in tea and scones, so I was content.

It was a cool afternoon, and I was glad I had worn a light jacket as I walked along. It only partially covered my tool belt, but most people were too distracted by Darjeeling to notice it anyway. It was a rare day when someone didn’t notice Darjeeling when I was out, and I would get stopped from time to time and asked about her. I would let children pet her, as long as they did so gently; she had never bitten anyone, but I didn’t want to take that chance. I tried not to be annoyed when they referred to Darjeeling as a he; I would gently correct them. If they tried that with me, though, all bets were off.

I was heading towards Progress Street, one of the city’s oldest; it winds through Copper Cove from northwest to southeast. The flats that lined the streets in and around Progress Street were old, and many of them had recently had more floors added to the original structure. This gave the area a charmingly overgrown feel, with some buildings reaching almost across the street. The lampposts almost had to bend to squeeze in. The lines that carried the dwimm that powered people’s devices were strung among the flats and lampposts like the web of a gigantic and somewhat tipsy spider. As always, pigeons battled for the best spots on those lines.

The corner of Becker and Progress was a popular spot for buskers to perform, and I stopped to hear one of my favorites, Zoe, play for a moment. A ginger with a sharp smile and a sweet voice, Zoe had been an independent crafter until she discovered that she was more gifted with her vocals and her ukulele than she’d been with a wrench and pliers. She was finishing up a cover version of Steam Punk Girl, and I joined the small lunchtime crowd in applauding.

Zoe saw me and waved me over. Good afternoon, Zoe! I said with a smile.

Halloo, Tabitha, she said as she petted Darjeeling. I’ve got a bit of news for you. Do you remember Genevieve Stanbury?

Of course. What’s the word on Genny?

She died this morning.

Cogs and gears, I said slowly. What happened?

Zoe shook her head. They found her in her workshop. I don’t know more than that, but the police think it was likely an accident.

Bloody shame, I said, and I meant it. Genny had taken me under her wing and found me jobs when I had started my crafting career. She was always generous with her time and knowledge.

Zoe strummed her ukulele. I’m sorry, Tabitha. I thought you’d want to know.

Thank you, Zoe. I dropped some shillings in her ukulele case. Lift a glass for her tonight.

I’ll be sure to. She tipped her cap. I tipped mine in turn and started away, my mind filled with memories of Genny.

Progress Street was crowded that afternoon. There were the horse-drawn cabs, carrying those who were better off to meetings or trysts, and omnibuses for the working class, pulled along their tracks by teams of specially-bred moa. A motorcar drove past, trailing steam from its tanks of dwimm-infused water. People hurried by me or strolled along, some wearing their finery, some the robes or uniforms of their position, some whatever they could afford or happened to be clean. I could see trolls, hired for construction or hauling jobs, heading for lunch. A trio of policemen marched along, two humans and one dwarf, their eyes seemingly everywhere. An elvish wizard stood to one side, watching the crowd with a mix of amusement and contempt, as people stared at his green robes and brass-trimmed staff.

There was a small group of men in red and gold uniforms on one corner, and when I saw them, I tried my best not to be noticed. Their outfits marked them as members of the Fellowship of Brass, one of the two crafter’s guilds that held most of the power in Copper Cove. If it involved clockwork or dwimm, one guild or the other almost always had a hand in crafting it.

The Fellowship had a store on that corner, and across the street from them was a store operated by their rivals, the Clockwork Consortium. Both stores sold much the same merchandise, the inventions that had first appeared over the last half-century. Some, such as iceboxes and tea kettles, were life-changing and affordable for many people. Others were still out of reach for all but the rich, such as motorcars, or were not so practical, as was the case with the telephone.

The stores could be found all across Copper Cove, and that rankled me. The design of the items the guilds sold was, in many cases, basic and uninspired. I knew that it was one way they kept the prices down, but there was no style involved. No imagination. It was frustrating to see, and one of the reasons why I try to bring a bit of flair to anything I craft.

As I reflected on this, I stopped and smiled as I came within sight of the Ticking Tower. It’s actually named after some dignitary only remembered now by historians, a bloke named Grimes or Graves or something who was obsessed with time. He designed the tower, but died before it was completed.

The tower is over 100 feet tall, four sided, with a giant clock on each side. The clocks are identical, but the facades that surround the faces are all different, each showing off a different aspect of life in the city many years ago. I love being able to look at and sometimes study the facades, to see the detail and the lovely blend of form and function, and reflect on the thought and craftsmanship behind that.

I have similar thoughts when I look to the south of the city. Copper Cove doesn’t have the same amount of airship traffic as other