She jerked her chin up at him with a small smile, and the table exploded in rough laughter again.
The orc named Cork did hold the door open for them, then he grunted and nodded toward the outbuilding on their left. They followed him quickly, catching curious, wary glances from the other magicals living and working at the waystation, but no one else spoke to them.
When they passed the first open garage, the huge ogre inside snarled and shook his head before getting back to pounding on his project. Cork led them to the second outbuilding on that side and flicked his hand toward the closest wall. It crackled with a sputtering blue light and rolled up like a garage door before they all stepped inside the long, dark, rectangular space.
“This one.” He smacked his hand on the side of a boat-looking vehicle with a metallic clang. The thing’s hull was patched with different-colored sheets of metal, and it rested on a raised platform just inside the open door. “You know how to spark?”
Cheyenne glanced at Persh’al, who nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth turned down. “Oh, yeah. I’m not gonna turn that thing on in your shop, though.”
Cork grunted out a laugh, exposing missing teeth. “You got more know than you show. Get out. I’ll bring it.”
Persh’al nodded for Cheyenne to follow him out of the garage, and they stood off to the side while Cork rubbed his hands vigorously. When he clapped them together, blue sparks shot out between his palms. He climbed over the side of the skiff, setting the whole thing wobbling on the platform as he sat. Then he set both glowing blue hands on the control panel at the front, and the vehicle flared to life with a low hum. It lifted a foot off the platform and jerked forward, bouncing out of the garage but still hovering a foot off the ground.
When the orc jumped out again, he was grinning. “Good enough.”
Persh’al chuckled. “Good enough, outernóre.”
They shook hands briefly and Cork sniffed, swiping under his nose with a meaty gray-green forearm.
Cheyenne looked away from the hovering machine and nodded at him. “Thanks.”
His yellow eyes narrowed and he cocked his head, looking her up and down. Then he snorted and waved her off. “You ain’t pullin’ that out here. Don’t roll, nah.”
“We won’t.” Persh’al stepped toward the hovering skiff as the orc walked away. Cork glanced at them over his shoulder and scoffed, muttering under his breath on his way back to the domed building.
Cheyenne gestured after him. “He didn’t think I meant that, did he?”
“Not a lotta drow say thank you, kid.” Persh’al shrugged out of his pack and tossed it into the back of the skiff. “Out here, manners are pretty much a joke.”
“Fine. I’ll just be an asshole, then.”
“Yeah, that might be the best way to keep anyone from getting too suspicious. Hop in.”
She slung her backpack into the back beside his, then climbed over the rounded lip of the hull and stared down at the bench crossing the front of the skiff. “Does it matter where I sit?”
“Nope. No driver’s seats, no roads, no wrong side of the lane. Just sit.”
Cheyenne sat where she was on the right-hand side, and Persh’al crossed the front of the skiff, chuckling.
“You look like you’re about to jump out and run away, kid.”
She snorted. “I do not.”
He hopped over the side, settled down next to her on the bench, and scooted two inches away from her when she stared at the pant legs almost touching hers. “First taste of O’gúl tech for ya. Keep in mind, this humming beast we’re sittin’ in isn’t even halfway to state-of-the-art, but she’s purring, all right.”
“And hovering.”
“Yeah.” Persh’al studied the control panel covered in O’gúl symbols, half of which had either faded from the metal surface or been scrubbed off.
“Is that the magic part or the tech part?” Cheyenne squinted and peered at the controls, which didn’t include a steering wheel, a lever, or even a joystick.
The troll grinned at her and nodded. “Both. I’d say buckle up, but our friend Cork apparently isn’t too concerned with safety. So brace yourself.”
She gripped the side of the hull and shoved her feet against the front wall of the skiff beneath the dash. “If you throw me out of this thing—”
“If I throw you out, I’m throwing myself out too.” Persh’al laughed and lifted his hand over the dash. “Damn, it’s been a long time.”
Green light flared across his palms and pulsed around his fingers. He lowered them both onto the dash and stared straight ahead. The skiff rose another six inches from the ground and added a high-pitched whine to the low hum of its magical generator, but that was it.
“Huh. These outernóre don’t know shit about steering.” The troll shifted one hand a quarter of an inch to the left and let off another pulse of green light. The skiff turned slowly to the left, aiming away from the garage and the other buildings of the waystation to face the hill they’d descended from the dry basin. “Now we’re talking. It’s like riding a bike, kid. Just takes a bit of—”
The skiff lurched forward and raced toward the hillside. Cheyenne grabbed the underside of the control panel to keep from flying backward, and Persh’al let out an excited whoop, then started laughing again.
“How the hell do you steer this thing?” she shouted over the rumbling drone of the engine. Or generator? Power source?
“Like puttin’ one foot in front of the other!” He slid a finger down the panel’s smooth metal surface, then swiped it to the right. The skiff banked away from the hill, spewing up a spray of dirt and sand and dry grass ripped from the ground. Then they were tearing across the flat expanse of dead ground past the waystation, heading away from the blackened, dried-up lakebed and toward O’gúleesh civilization.
Cheyenne squinted against the wind buffeting her face. Her white hair streamed behind
