The Clockill and the Thief

by Gareth Ward

  “Yeah. Under me vest. Now can we go before I lose all dignity?”

  They ascended side by side, snaking up the rough stone. Sin considered himself a good climber, having undertaken many criminal tasks for the Fixer on the rooftops of Coxford. Stanley was significantly better, and Sin could tell he was holding his friend back. They reached the rusted metal, which up close seemed to extend endlessly above them. Stanley pressed a disc to the sheet and operated the thumb switch. With a faint thunk, it clung limpet-like to the metal. From his belt, Stanley unclipped a length of rope with a stirrup at one end. He hooked it onto the disc and put his foot in the loop, testing that it would take his weight. “Clings like cark on a blanket,” he said, beaming.

  Hand over hand, they worked their way up the metal, transferring their weight between stirrups as they moved alternate discs higher up the wall. Stanley was right about the discs’ suction. When they latched onto the smooth metal, there was nothing that was going to shift them. Even so, Sin disliked the feeling of powerlessness. Once more, his life was totally reliant on technology – if the science failed, he would die. Then again, his life was already dependent on technology. While the injections worked for now, his body was changing and, with every dose, the positive effects lessened. The frequency of his fixes had shortened from weeks to days, and it was only a matter of time until they stopped working altogether. Nimrod assured Sin he’d soon stabilise and then they’d be able to cure him. But genius as the scientist was, he couldn’t lie for toffee; he was no nearer to finding a cure than when the injections had started, of that Sin was positive.

  “Not much further,” whispered Stanley. “It’s just like the rigair boots, sure and steady does it.”

  Sin detached a disc and reapplied it an arm’s length above him. “And there’s no clockwork to run down,” he said, heaving himself up.

  The pack on Stanley’s back made a mechanical clunk and steaming water spilled from a nozzle on its base. Stanley glanced down at an ironglass and litanium gauge fitted to the pack’s shoulder harness. His grin turned to a look of horror. “Crap. Pressure’s gone. Stay put, I’m going up top.”

  “What do you mean, stay put? I’m attached to you.”

  “Only enough steam for one. Sorry, brother. Got to go.” Stanley’s thumb hovered over the red button.

  “Don’t you dare leave me,” threatened Sin.

  “No choice.” Stanley pushed the button and, with a hiss, the pipes popped free of Sin’s discs.

  His heart pounding, Sin froze, fearful that the slightest movement would dislodge him. Sweat prickled his palms. Why hadn’t the discs peeled away the moment the pipes had disconnected? They must have been engineered with a non-return valve. But as Sin had discovered on the fish, valves could leak.

  Stanley surged upwards, hand over hand. “Trust me, brother,” he shouted down to Sin.

  Stranded, Sin hung sixty feet above the market square’s unforgiving cobblestones.

  A trickle of cold sweat ran down Sin’s ribs. The metal plate encircling Red Band offered no handholds and, despite the rusted red veneer, it was too thick to punch through. He should never have trusted Stanley. The only person you could rely on was yourself. With his new blood, new strength and ability to slow time, surely Sin could do something?

  A mournful hiss issued from beneath Sin’s left hand, then the disc sprang free from the metal plate. Sin’s body dropped, and the now useless device tumbled from his fingers. The remaining disc shuddered. His forearm pulled taut and pain stabbed his shoulder like the ghost of Eldritch’s rapier. Sin stared up in desperation, not wanting to see the discarded disc shattering across the cobbles.

  Stanley reached the top of the iron sheet and jammed a fifi hook behind the lip of the metal plate. He uncoiled the attached rope and let it drop.

  Sin stretched for the lifeline. Tantalisingly close, it had fallen a foot out of reach. With the palm of his free hand pressed against the iron sheet, he pulled himself closer and snatched for the rope. Gravity dragged his body away and he grabbed nothing but air. The remaining disc groaned, then let out an ominous wheeze.

  Using his legs to give him momentum, Sin let go of the disc and lunged for the dangling lifeline. The coarse hemp brushed across his palms and his hands snapped shut. His face slammed into the iron plate, setting his ears ringing. Bright flashes of pain coloured his vision, and a trickle of blood ran from his nose. His grip tightened; clinging to the rope was all that mattered. With a pop, the abandoned disc detached from the iron sheet and tumbled down, flipping over and over before smashing into the cobbles in a shower of shattering mekaniks. Sin shook the fogginess from his head, wrapped his feet around the rope and began to climb.

  When he finally reached the top of the iron plate, it was a welcome sight. Stanley grinned sheepishly. “Sorry about leaving you, brother. Didn’t have enough pressure for us both.”

  Sin thrust his feet into the rope loops that Stanley had hooked over the metal’s edge and let his burning muscles recover. He gulped down a couple of deep breaths, calming his racing pulse. Pretending to be too puffed to reply, he nodded with a lift of his chin. The fact that it had been the right call, and had saved both their lives, did nothing to quell the resentment that swelled in his chest. He wanted to punch Stanley for leaving him hanging and was grateful that, either by design or chance, his friend was out of reach.

  Stanley wasn’t to blame. If anything, Sin was the one at fault. He’d asked for the help and had very nearly got them both killed. And they weren’t out of the woods yet. He looked upwards at the remaining twenty feet of tower. With his muscles fatigued, it would be a difficult and dangerous climb, but from here on up he’d be in control of his own fate. “Come on, let’s get went,” he said.

  Sin heaved himself over the tower’s crenellated battlements and dropped onto the weathered oak planks that had once acted as the firing point for the cannons. Stanley had completed the climb ahead of him and was already preparing the ropes for their descent. “You sure I can’t watch your back in there?” Stanley said, motioning to the trapdoor that led below.

  “No. You’ve done your bit. The rest is all on me.” It would have been reassuring to have the help, only this wasn’t Stanley’s mission. Sin had an uneasy feeling about the whole job and he didn’t want to endanger his friend further. The Fixer claimed he wanted to send a message to Carver, the leader of the Red Blades. The message was in the form of a gift, a bottle of Fromagian cognac that nestled in Sin’s pack. It was typical of the Fixer’s style, messing with your mind. If he’d met Carver head-on people would have got hurt, and that would have cost the Fixer. So instead he decided to send a gift, a gesture that in other walks of life may have been considered friendly. However, the bottle of fine brandy conveyed a message, unstated but implied: I can get to you anytime, anywhere.

  Having been the Fixer’s lieutenant for several years, Sin understood how he worked and knew there was also another possibility. Perhaps the Fixer was making a peace offering. The Red Blades had taken a kill order out on Sin, and he couldn’t shake the suspicion that maybe the cognac wasn’t the real gift – he was.

  Sin gave a gentle tug on the trapdoor’s pull ring. The wood moved half an inch then held firm, bolted from beneath. He slung his pack from his shoulder and rummaged inside it. His fingers embraced the cool smoothness of a neodymium magnet. Holding it above the trapdoor, he drew the magnet across the planks. The bolt trembled beneath the wood, juddering free. Sin tried the door again and this time it lifted open. He gave Stanley the thumbs up, then descended into the lair of his enemy.

  The map of the tower provided by the Fixer shone clear in Sin’s mind. Being able to remember pictures with perfect clarity was a knack of his, perhaps another by-product of his Super-Pangenes. Carver’s quarters were near the top of the fortress, a privilege of rank, furthest from danger and high above the sewer-riddled smell of the streets. Sin descended the thick wooden steps from the roof into a tapestry-lined corridor. Chemlights glowed or
ange in wall alcoves designed for candles in more primitive times. Sin counted seventeen paces and stopped by a tapestry depicting two bloodied knights locked in mortal combat. He pulled the fabric aside and stepped into the arched doorway behind. If the Fixer’s spies were right, which they invariably were, he was outside Carver’s bedchamber. He slid a hooked pick into the door’s lock then, with well-practiced finesse, raked the pins clear and twisted the bolt free. Easing the door open a fraction of an inch, he moved his ear to the gap and listened. From within came only the sound of snoring.

  He pushed the door further ajar and slipped inside. A prodigious four-poster bed, draped in velvet and silk, filled the chamber. On it slept Carver, his blimp-like belly rising and falling beneath a sweat-stained nightshirt. A smile slunk onto Sin’s face. This was the Red Blade’s feared gang leader, a man who had signed the kill order on Sin, and yet here he was, asleep and defenceless, wearing a bobbled nightcap.

  Sin took a step then hesitated. Some sixth sense warned him to stop. The Fixer always said to trust your instincts, and the itch at the back of his neck had never led him wrong. He scanned the room again. There were no hiding places for an ambush, except under that giant bed. His pulse quickening, he crouched and peered beneath the massive wooden frame. The porcelain chamber-pot and pom-pom slippers appeared harmless, so why was he still on edge?

  He sniffed the air. Stale sweat and flatulence; unpleasant, but not dangerous. What was it that niggled at him? Sin became aware of his hands resting on the floor. The wood was softer and smoother than the corridor’s rough oak floorboards. Not necessarily unusual for a bedchamber, except the planks were laid in long narrow strips and had a distinctive red sheen to them.

  Sin had seen a similar floor once before, in the mansion of a Nipponese businessman who had cheated the Fixer. The house had been empty when they’d robbed it, a fortunate happenstance as the floorboards had chirped loudly like a chorus of birds when they’d walked on them. The Fixer had called it a nightingale floor. He said they were common in feudal Nippon to warn of assassins, and that it was impossible to cross one without making a noise.

  Slowly, Sin lifted his foot. The floorboard let out more of a squeak than a chirp, the sharp sound loud enough to disturb Carver. He grunted and mumbled something in his sleep, then rolled onto his side. Clearly the floor wasn’t an option.

  The tower’s walls were rugged grey stone, no different from those on the outside, and Sin and Stanley had scaled that easy enough. He gripped a knobbly lump that offered a handhold and, wedging the rubber soles of his boots into the cracks, lifted himself free of the floor. All he had to do was follow the curve of the tower around to Carver. Easy as pudding.

  Upon reaching the bedside table, Sin used the solid oak furniture to take his weight. He removed the cognac from his pack and placed it adjacent to a dirty handkerchief and a pile of coins. Attaching the Fixer’s note to the bottle, he adjusted it so it faced the bed, then leaned back to survey his handiwork. Something among the loose change caught his attention. One of the coins was in the shape of a small silver shield. Sin recognised the crest embossed on its surface, two crossed swords below a crown. It was the insignia of the King’s Knights. Eldritch’s insignia. Was Carver a King’s Knight? COG recruited from the gangs. Had they accidentally recruited a Red Blade spy who was betraying them now? This mission was supposed to be a secret – but if Noir had found out, someone else could have too. Sin needed to rejoin Stanley and back-slang it while they still had the chance.

  The nervous sweating of his palms made the return journey around the curved wall more difficult. Had they been double-crossed? Would he be ambushed by Red Blades at any moment, their kill order finely executed? His pulse racing, Sin pushed past the tapestry then hurried back to the trapdoor. The job was done, the message delivered; all they had to do was abseil down the tower and they were in the clear. Stealing up the rough oak stairs, he emerged into the night, welcoming the caress of the chill breeze on his face.

  Stanley stood precariously on the battlement’s edge, looking out over the square far below.

  “What are you doing?” whispered Sin.

  “Precisely what he’s told if he wants to live.”

  Sin spun around. Eldritch stood with a rapier in one hand and a steampistol in the other, his scarlet coat flapping about him.

  Sin perched next to Stanley on the edge of a crenellation, the wind whipping at his baggy shirt. A dirty smog had risen across the city, and it swirled around the base of the tower, its wispy fingers caressing the rusted iron band that encircled the stone.

  “Sorry brother, he swooped out of nowhere and surprised me.” Stanley’s nose was bloodied, and one cheek appeared swollen, a purplish bruise colouring the skin.

  “Don’t sweat it. I’m gonna get us out of this,” said Sin.

  Stanley lifted his chin in a half nod, his eyes devoid of their usual roguish glint.

  “COG Sin. With your left hand, remove your pistol and throw it over the tower’s edge,” commanded Eldritch.

  Reaching under his jacket, Sin clasped the weapon. Could he pull it out, turn and shoot Eldritch? Possibly, if time slowed, but that wasn’t something he could control. And even then he’d be chancing it. With his fingertips, he withdrew the steampistol and tossed it as instructed.

  “Turn to face me and keep your hands where I can see them.” With his own pistol trained on Sin, Eldritch tapped the point of his rapier against the stone battlements. “Touching as your camaraderie is, I wouldn’t get too attached to COG Nobbs if I were you.”

  “This has nothing to do with Stanley; it’s between me and you,” said Sin, now facing his nemesis.

  “I didn’t involve COG Nobbs, you did. His fate is on your conscience, not mine.”

  “That’s only because you don’t have one. You’re a traitor.”

  “And you’re a thief. You stole some papers that belong to me and I want them back. Your mother’s work was lost when she died. I’m on a mission to find it.”

  Sin’s hand went to his chest where his keeper hung.

  A smirk twisted Eldritch’s lips. “Give it to me.”

  From beneath his shirt Sin pulled the ribbed brassanium tube and handed it over. Six numbered rings circled the keeper, ensuring that without the secret code, it was useless.

  “The combination?” said Eldritch.

  Sin hesitated. The moment Eldritch opened the tube, he and Stanley were dead. The keeper no longer contained the papers. Instead, it housed something far more valuable. A vial of his medicine.

  Eldritch rested the point of his rapier between Stanley’s shoulderblades. “We’re going to play a little game. It’s called who can fall from the tower the best?”

  “Wait!” yelled Sin. “I’ll give you the combination, but you’ve got to let Stanley go free.”

  Eldritch smirked. “Start talking.”

  “Three, seven, two, one, six, five,” said Sin.

  “See, that wasn’t so hard.” Eldritch prodded with his rapier and Stanley toppled from the battlements.

  Sin lunged. The rapier’s blade flashed in the moonlight and the point pierced his shoulder, pulling him up short. A trickle of blood warmed his chest. “You lied. You said you’d let him go free.”

  “He is free. Free as a bird.” With his thumb, Eldritch twiddled the dials on the brassanium tube. Once the combination was set, he pressed the release button. The keeper remained closed. Eldritch looked up from the device, rage in his eyes.

  “I lied too.” Sin lifted his chin, defiant.

  The point of the blade moved from Sin’s shoulder to his throat. “I suggest you consider your options. You either give me the combination and die quickly, or I hand you over to Carver.”

  Sin raised his hands above his head in surrender. Like the Fixer, who was named for his ability to fix problems, Carver was named for his ability to inflict pain with a blade.

  “There is a third option,” suggested Sin. Keeping his arms straight, he lowered one arm par
allel with the ground and moved the other to the five o’clock position; semaphore for the letter “Z”.

  From across the square a steamrifle screamed.

  A vivid spark leaped from the sabre’s blade, accompanied by the crack of metal striking metal. The weapon spun from Eldritch’s grip, sending the traitor staggering backwards.

  Sin clambered onto the battlements and looked down at the distant smog churning around the tower’s base. This wasn’t natural; it was against all his survival instincts. Swearing under his breath, he launched himself into the air. His stomach experienced a brief sensation of weightlessness, then gravity took hold and he plummeted. Thumping his chest, he hit the button beneath his shirt. With a hiss, two giant red balloons exploded from the buoyancy aid strapped to his torso. Bursting through the specially pleated panels in his shirt and jacket, the balloons surged skywards, slowing Sin’s fall.

  A shot screamed from the tower above and one of the balloons wheezed, a hole puncturing the rubberised silk. Sin winced. The escaping gas wasn’t a problem; he was nearly at the ground – of more concern was that the nail had zinged past only inches from his head. Suspended underneath the balloons, he was a sitting duck.

  From a distant rooftop, Zonda’s steamrifle screamed again and a pained yelp issued from the top of the tower. “Bang up the castle!” Sin punched the air.

  “Brace,” shouted Stanley from somewhere below.

  The toxic smog shrouding the square engulfed Sin and his eyes watered. The haze swirled, then thinned. Stanley appeared through the mist, the balloons from his own buoyancy aid already deflated. The cobbles rushed upwards and Sin’s boots struck the ground. His knees bent, and he staggered. Stanley grabbed his arm, stopping him from falling. “I got you, brother.”

  “Cheers, Nobby.” Sin unclipped the canvas harness straps from the balloons and let them drop to the ground.

  “Nah. Much grass to you for making me wear the buoyancy aid,” said Stanley. “You proper saved my tallywags.”