The senior mage's lip curled as if in distaste. "You, girl, are to keep your larcenous hands to yourself, and to keep your mouth shut during our visit," he said. "Questor Grimm, I hold you responsible for the child's behaviour; ensure that she does not jeopardise our mission."
Grimm felt the Grivense urchin, who had taken the seat to his right, stiffen as if intending to deliver a stinging rebuke to the senior mage for his harsh, imperious words. He put his hand on her left shoulder and squeezed it gently, yet with an unmistakeable hint of urgency. He felt a measure of relief that she seemed to take the hint, and she remained silent.
The interior walls of the vehicle were garlanded with a complex maze of cables whose purpose Grimm could not begin to fathom, but he understood the reason for the holes drilled into the structural rings and girders supporting the outer skin of the craft; they must be intended to reduce the weight of the supporting members. Weight must be a major concern with any machine designed to take to the air.
He heard thumping noises from under his feet, and he guessed that Foster was disassembling his marvellous hut and loading the component pieces into the belly of the helicopter in a piecemeal fashion. A decisive, louder clack seemed to indicate that the process was complete, and Foster climbed into the front of the vehicle.
"All set, folks? Right, here we go." The Technologist connected several cables extending from his helmet into receptacles at the side of his seat. He pressed several raised cartouches on a glowing panel in front of him covered with a profusion of clocks, lights and small levers with strange markings, and Grimm heard a whining noise start within the belly of the machine.
Flipping down a curved arm at the side of his weird helmet, Foster spoke the bizarre, unintelligible argot of Technology with a confidence that told of many years of familiarity with the equipment.
"Control; this is Hotel Romeo Two-Seven requesting permission to return this time. Five stragglers picked up, AAS, two thaumaturges in the group… yes, I thought you might be interested. I guess you'll have a lot to talk about back there. Hotel Romeo Two-Seven is preparing for dust-off this time; estimated ETA, one five minutes. This is Hotel Romeo Two-Seven, listening; out."
Grimm heard Foster muttering an arcane litany as he pressed more cartouches, almost as if he was patterning his mind for a spell in the manner of a Guild Mage. "T and P are nominal," muttered the strange man, "fuel looks good, APU is online, wind shear within limits, engine start."
A loud whine sounded from above the ceiling of the craft, soon followed by a spluttering cough, a roar and a steadily accelerating chopping sound. Looking up through a small window in the metal ceiling, Grimm saw the metal blades atop the machine start to rotate, faster and faster until they became blurred and he could no longer distinguish one blade from another.
Now Grimm could see why Foster had referred to the vehicle as a 'chopper'.
"Cyclic and collective look good, throttle answers," the Haven man muttered, casting his gaze upwards.
In a louder voice, he said "We're on our way, folks. Hang on; it may get a little rough, but it's nothing we can't handle."
The Technologist pulled the left-hand lever upwards. Grimm felt a brief pang of anxiety, as the vehicle jerked upwards and rocked from side to side, while Foster wiggled a stick at his right side.
"Sorry about that, folks. The collective's a little jerky; must be the cold. Ah, it seems all right now."
The roar increased as the pilot twisted the lever at his left hand, and the vehicle moved smoothly upwards. Grimm looked out of a small window beside him, and he felt a shock of dismay as he saw the prostrate forms of four horses lying on the mountainside. He felt moved to cry out to Foster to save the poor animals, and he wondered how he and his companions would reach Glabra without them, but he realised that the small metal craft had insufficient space for the mounts.
In any case, the sensitive animals were probably dead by now.
The chopping sound smoothed to a steady, chattering beat, and Foster moved the right-hand stick forward. The vehicle's nose tilted downwards, and it began to move forwards at an increasing rate.
"Next stop, Haven!" Foster cried in a cheery, confident tone loud enough to be heard over the roar pervading the structure. Grimm looked out of his window to see a field of fluffy clouds far below him; a strange vista indeed. The insubstantial celestial structures seemed to map out an alien landscape that subtly modified its boundaries and borders as he watched.
He stole a glance at his companions: Drex wore a broad, wondering smile on her face; Crest looked bewildered but unafraid; Xylox's lips moved silently in what Grimm took to be curses against the whole damned art of Technology; and the imperturbable Tordun seemed to be asleep.
Grimm marvelled at the strange, complex machine and its mastery of the air, but the rattling and shaking of the craft and the loud noises thrumming through its very structure made the marvellous aerial trip a far from relaxing experience.
As far as Grimm was concerned, flight was best left to the birds, bats and insects.
After maybe ten minutes' unsteady flight, Foster brought the machine to a halt in the air. "This is Hotel Romeo Two-Seven, requesting landing clearance this time," he said, although Grimm could not see anyone who might hear his words outside the vehicle.
The Technologist nodded, as if in response to some voice Grimm could not hear. "Ident is as follows, Controclass="underline" Pilot Foster, two-two-niner-zero."
Grimm heard a buzzing, crackling sound from the pilot's helmet which he took as some response from Haven, and the vehicle began to descend towards a wide ledge far below.
With a gentle bump, the helicopter was once more on firm ground. Foster pressed a few more cartouches and the roar above the craft ceased, the illumination in the clock panel dimmed and the only remaining sound was a decelerating, whipping sound. Disconnecting himself from his equipment, the man turned to face his passengers.
"It's all done, folks. Welcome to Haven."
Grimm started as the sliding door opposite opened, revealing a pair of men standing outside, dressed in padded white-and-grey suits. They seemed well-protected against the vicious, flaying wind hurling needle-like shards of ice into the warm interior of the craft. The young Questor felt a popping in his eardrums, and he saw the elven thief, Crest, clapping his hands over his sensitive ears, his face a mask of pain. The men outside the helicopter carried metal sticks at which Grimm stared.
These must be ancient Technological weapons, he thought, gazing in wonder at the bizarre tubes, although they glisten and gleam as if new.
One of the men stepped forward and spoke gruffly, his voice muffled by swathes of cloth that covered his mouth.
"Welcome to Haven," he said. "Step lively, now! Administrator Armitage is waiting for you."
Grimm and his companions were hustled through a metal door, and the Questor heard a loud hiss as it closed. Instinctively, he worked his jaw to ease the pain in his ears. The discomfort passed.
They were standing shivering in a small cubicle furnished with wheels, clocks, cartouches and coloured lights like those in Foster's cubicle within the helicopter. Their guide, or guard, pointed a metal implement at each of them in turn, studying a number of tiny, blinking lamps on its surface.
Pressing a stud on the wall, the man shouted "They're clean," and the door in front of them slid smoothly open.
The cubicle opened into a large, metal-walled space, illuminated by a warm, orange light from the ceiling. Two further guards with Technological weapons stood before the cubicle's exit.