Iron Seas 03 - Riveted

residence overlooked the laborers’ bunkhouses.
    Goltzius had remained behind in town. David was already wishing he had, too, if only to ask why no one was patronizing the shops. It didn’t make any damn sense. After years of watching his father sweat over a ledger, he was acutely aware of how many customers a shop needed to get by. His father had barely survived onvelocipedal sales and repairs, plus the odd tinkering commissions unrelated to pedaling. The number of laborers di Fiore had brought in should have been a boon to shop owners. Instead the locals looked tired, worn—resentful.
    Dooley must have thought so, too. “I’d have wagered that we’d see more activity, given that there’re five hundred laborers with money in their pockets just come to town.”
    “Only two hundred and fifty men in Smoke Cove,” Komlan said. “Di Fiore insisted that we don’t make any problems for the town. Our men eat at the station and they can order anything else they need through our stores so that we don’t put a hardship on the town, eating through their supplies and leaving them nothing.”
    So all the money spent went back into company pockets. That wasn’t how David remembered Paolo di Fiore. He’d been a generous man. David’s father had said so, too, until the day of his death. Paolo di Fiore had given everything he’d earned back to the people of Inoka Mountain—until he’d accidentally destroyed it.
    Though Dooley frowned, he nodded. “I suppose it’s no simple thing to restock.”
    “That’s truth. Months might pass before an order arrives—and this has been a hard winter for trading.” Komlan grinned suddenly. “But if you’re looking for activity, you’ll only have to wait a few hours and visit the public houses. There’s enough to keep a man entertained.”
    David knew that Dooley wouldn’t be looking for entertainment, but rather for stories from local fishermen. What would they say of the railroad men who’d moved in? “Is di Fiore in town?”
    “He is.” Komlan gripped the carriage strap as the steamcoach turned onto a narrow drive and stopped. Unlike the houses in town, which were small buildings constructed from dark wood siding and peaked tin roofs, or the weathered stone church, the station house was a three-storied, whitewashed block of a building. “The younger di Fiore, at least—Lorenzo. That was his ferry cruiser floating overthe harbor. The elder has his head up in the æther, and is usually at the camp on the southern rim. Smoke Cove is as far as I go. I oversee the work here, while Lorenzo takes his pick of men inland, where the going is rougher. You all right getting down, Kentewess?”
    David frowned. Why wouldn’t he be all right? Rutted snow and chopped ice wouldn’t trip him up. But he bit back his irritated response. The man had probably been trying to be courteous, not condescending.
    Though cold, the wind wasn’t nearly so bitter as it was aboard the airship. Dooley caught his gaze as he stepped out of the steamcoach. The older man wore a tight smile. David hadn’t spent much time with Komlan on this journey, but his friend had often visited with the man the first few days. Midweek, David had noticed Dooley begging off from further visits, pleading work that had to be finished before they arrived in Iceland. Obviously he wanted to like the other Irishman, but was having a hard time of it.
    Hopefully the survey they’d receive would be worth the time spent at this dinner. Of course, if not for this supper, he’d likely be haunting the airship’s main decks, hoping to see Annika.
    Moping. Brooding.
    Any supper had to be better than hours of that.
    David stomped the snow off his boots and followed the others inside. Whatever money di Fiore had made back from the laborers, not much of it had gone into furnishing this house. Though well-appointed, nothing in the front parlor seemed overly grand or ostentatious, but could have come from Dooley’s own house—though his house could have also fit into this one several times over.
    The man who rose from the sofa and greeted them wasn’t much older than David, with finely tailored clothes and a neatly trimmed beard. Well kept, but not soft. He looked the sort who might traipse alongside them on a jungle expedition, hacking away at undergrowth. His gaze rested an extra second on David’s handand eyepiece, then came back for another look when Komlan made introductions.
    “Lorenzo di Fiore, and here I’ve