She stamped foot. “For your death, you great idiot. The cart at the gate with watchmen declaring they brought your corpse blood-wet from fight in a tavern.”
“Oh.” Of course. I’d forgot. “Well, that wasn’t me.”
My wife moves wind-fast as she wishes. Of a sudden she was beside me, face to my face, peering into my eyes as cat into mouse hole, seeking my rodent soul. White teeth bared.
“I know that now,” she hissed. “But the news caught me at a sad time, a fearing time. We’d argued. You’d gone off. Dammit Rayne, I thought I’d lost you.”
My turn for anger. A relief, in truth.
“Well I’m right here you bloody cow. You are right here. How are you also inside the damned house smashing things and mourning me?”
Her eyes turned to thin blue circles about black wells. Red tongue jutted out, testing incisor tip. I tensed. If she put teeth to my throat I would bang her head against the slates. Not to kill, but to stun while I nobly fled. She saw me so strategize, and grinned the more. Well, we were married now, and beginning to know one another’s way of thought.
She did no biting. She closed eyes to calm the storm within, shook hair straight. Then reached to dress pocket. Pulled forth not gun nor knife, but a key. Twin to the one in my breech’s pocket. A bronze key, greened as some ship’s bell long sunk beneath the sea of time.
Chapter 12
Concerning Angelic Mysteries, and Pants
My wife plays harpsichord as wind plays spring flowers. Which is to say, she plays well. Listening, I forget I hear taut strings twang within a wooden box. The music becomes a live thing; not fashioned but born.
I long to master some instrument more kindly than knife, sword, pistol. Tried piano and flute. Alas, I lack some secret of time and tempo. I do not fathom why the hell people tap their feet as they follow a line of notes. What is the connection? Do not think me deaf to the voice of God in cathedral organs, nor the scream of Lucifer in bagpipes. No, I hear music’s magic; but its creation remains mystery. No sorrow there. I have plenteous other talents.
But my mother played the fiddle. I have memories of her beside the fire. Tongue out in concentration, eyes intent. Skin nutmeg brown, black hair shiny as wet horse mane. Fiddle beneath chin, bow teasing out notes, sending them flying about the room like birds. I am six, sitting quiet so as not to be sent to bed. Watching the fire shine in the eyes of Knight and Day, my dogs. Noting similar shine in the eyes of my father. A great tall man in a great tall chair, leaning forwards, chin on hand. He studies my mother as though she were the music, and what comes from bow and string mere distant echo.
She glances at him and grins, and turns again, slashing strings. Cannot say if she plays well or ill. I left them at seven, never returning. But of late I’ve decided my parents were enamored. I choose to believe my mother and father were hopelessly infatuated with eye and touch and breath of one another.
As grown man I’ve suspected that romantic love must be close kin to music. Both are mysteries. How do they begin? What carries them along, what binds the mad pieces to make the whole? I cannot say. Am left puzzling at tapping feet, humming numbers in pretense of tempo. You slash a fiddle with a bow, and out comes music. You meet another, and dare speak, and then to touch, and behold: love?
Nonsense. I know the separate parts of romance, but can’t grasp the mystery of its making. Too much like music. Oh hell; perhaps it is music.
* * *
“I thought you dead,” Lalena whispered.
I gathered words to excuse, to justify. To explain in gentle authority how I’d thought it wisest not to worry her mind, trouble her sleep. I’d gone alone to face death. A man’s business, a soldier’s risk, a fascinating morning. All now concluded. Pity she suffered brief fright; but small cost when we stood now together. Yes, I should say all that, just so.
I put arms about her. “Forgive me.” Fewer words, and wiser.
She hesitated. Then returned the embrace. “Perhaps you’d have spoken, had I not also kept secrets,” she admitted. Was this quarrel’s end? Excellent. We’d never quarrel more. I knew it so. Never. A glittery crash sounded below our feet. I sighed. More windows, more glaziers’ fees.
“So there is your earlier self in the house now…” I clasped this wife tight, considered my second wife inside. I possessed two wives, legally and morally. Fascinating possibilities came to mind. “Shouldn’t we best go comfort her?”
“You gutter-minded southern lunatic,” shouted Lalena, shoving me away. Unfairly reading my thoughts again. No magic when a man stands naked.
“What I am doing downstairs now is chasing cousin Zee about your study. Poor soul’s terrified; thinks I’m going to eat him. But I’m only shaking him to drop the key he found in the puzzle box. I shall take it, then rush about the house looking for the proper door. Everyone supposes I have gone mad. Even Zee, who should know better. He’ll be following me about, chattering of time and mathematics.”
And at last I understood. “You thought I’d gone this morning to my death.”
“Yes!”
“The key Zee found in the puzzle box. You knew what it could do. You took it. Crossed a door, traveled back to earlier in the morning to keep me from going to the tavern to my death.”
“Aye.” Then shook head. “But it did not pass so exact as that. I must go running up and down different paths. Took weary wandering before finding the door to this morning again. In time to stop you, I thought. But I didn’t, did I?”
“No,” I sighed. “Just missed me. I went, met some of your more dangerous cousins. One gave me the same sort of key. The very same key, perhaps. I used it to stumble back here to this morning.” Confession made, if of confusing sort. Felt right to have it said. Then a thought occurred.
“What did you see through the other doors?”
She reached hand to the scratch at her cheek. Then turned, gathered up blanket, folding it in studious thought. At last turned to me.
“Now,” she demanded. “Tell me plain and straight, all that happened at the tavern.”
No answer to my question? After we had just apologized for holding secrets. But I considered the lines beneath her eyes. The riot within the house now, mirror to the riot within her for the scare I’d caused. Best not press.
I recovered the remains of the wine. Gave her sip, took one for my own needs. Described my morning. How I’d entered the tavern to find it no different than seventeen years past. The mad clock, the madder Em, the dusty-with-years Glocken. The slaughter, the clockwork killer, the impossible hall. Lalena listened, silent and solemn as apprentice undertaker.
“Hmm,” she hmmed, when I finished. “Well, this is Clockmaker mischief and no mistake. What other tokens were in the box? My penny whistle, your obituary. A seashell, can’t remember who claimed that. Zee found the key I shook from him…”
“Chatterton found two buttons bound with hair,” I recalled. “That connects to Em and Ed, from a tale he told. They’re his lost cousins Emily and Edgar.”
“Like enough,” muttered Lalena. “Don’t recall meeting either in revel nor dream. And I am sure Chatterton thought them dead.” She bit lip with white teeth. A drop of red welled. Her pink tongue licked it in savoring thought. “Madness, madness for the Glocken to game with Chatterton. And good lord, Rayne, you were locked in a room with two more mad Espada?”
“It never came to fighting them,” I admitted. “In fact, Emily slaughtered a few of my attackers. Saved my life, perhaps.” I’d not fathomed the why of that. Mere whim, like enough. “But never brought me fork for breakfast, nor mug for coffee.”
She grinned, icicle teeth ‘neath eyes of summer sky. “Ha. Perhaps Glocken and Espada were wise to fear you first. My man is madder and redder than all Chat’s tribe.”
“I am a respected businessman of the city, woman. A civic leader, proud tax payer, and strict affirmer of rational thought in national affairs.”
“Just so, my love, just so.” she agreed, and gave me kiss
. Some of our tension passed.
At that sweet moment a figure dropped out the blue sky. Brown-haired girl, yellow cotton dress held demurely so no wind revealed overmuch leg. Great white wings to scoop the air. The girl bent down, grabbed my tossed-aside pants. Leaped into the sky again, clutching prize.
Lalena stared astounded. I stared astounded. No instinct comes to rescue when an angel swoops down and steals your pants. Nor training, nor wisdom. One simply stares in astound. I did not move till I recalled the Glocken’s key in the pocket.
“Stop!” I shouted. And raced up the slates. Lalena followed. Pointless. We stood on the roof peak, watching the winged woman fly fast and away. Figures in the street shouted and pointed, but not for the fleeing angel. No, they found my naked self more noteworthy. I waved to them, cursed the angel and descended slates to the propriety of shadows again.
My wife worked kindly not to laugh. Lips twitched, nose twitched, pale face reddened. I considered reproving this wifely impertinence. But lacking pants, one lacks authority. I might don the shirt, the mail, the sword. What good that? Without breeches a man stands no closer to dignity for a thousand accessories. I crossed arms, aimed defiance at heaven.
“Chatterton’s angel,” I declared.
“Was that the creature?” asked Lalena. “Never quite believed in her. You’ve met her oft enough. She must be taken with you.” She cocked blond eyebrow at my naked self. I held out empty hands to show I had no more theory of the creature than I had pants.
Lalena turned gaze to the mysterious heavens. “Is there reason she wanted your breeches?”
“The key the Glocken gave. In the pockets,” I sighed.
“Ah,” she nodded. Reached into her own pocket, produced her twin key. “No matter. One will do.”
“Do for what?” As I saw, we had but to wait here, biding our time in amorous patience till her earlier self went seeking the door to dawn. Behold: destiny’s dance completed.
“To begin, we must find Chat before his cousins find him.”
“You think they continue the Espada family contest?”
“Likely. That, or the Glocken sets them upon Chat to catch you in the riot.” She considered, nodded. “For sure he does just that. The man can fetch a penny whistle from my girlhood. He can fetch two Espada from their cursed Tempering, send them where best it serves his purpose.”
“What purpose?”
“Your death, dear heart.”
“Why?”
“Because you threaten to become master of the clans. ‘Tis not a position he’d see filled, lest end be put to the Clockmaker clan’s strange way of begetting.”
Politics and reproduction. Whether royal family or Lalena’s kin, the concepts found themselves entwined. But I wondered what ‘strange way of begetting’ might mean to such fantastical minds as theirs. Perhaps the Clockmaker folk mated inside giant clocks. Or copulated by exact rhythm of ticks, tocks and bell chimes? I pictured them gathered on a giant sundial, numbers painted upon naked bodies, and as they danced across the shadow of time then he or she would…
Lalena sighed, thumped a dainty fist upon my head.
“Stop that,” I commanded my wife.
“You stop that.”
I gathered my thoughts. “Suppose I were to vow never pursue the title of master? Would your family leave us in peace?”
She shook head. “I do not know.” Bit fingers. “Not likely to be so simple.”
It never was. I gathered my things, we wended the way back to the bedroom window. Climbed into our chamber again. Of course Mistress Grumble stood in room’s center, wringing hands. Sighting me she screamed, fled.
“Servants are difficult creatures,” observed Lalena. “Excitable as family.” Lady though my wife was, she knew little of servants before our marriage. Her vampiric clan considered domestic throats wandering a home, to be overmuch temptation. I tried to picture one of her kin eating the Grumble. Impossible. A maid, perhaps.
I sighed, opened wardrobe, chose fresh pants, shirt. “You cannot fault the Grumble. She supposed I was dead. Or at least dressed.” Pants on, shirt on. Rapier at belt. I opened drawers, considered knives, coins, poisons, pistols, ropes, false letters of identification. What weapons served for mortal contest against an old man asleep at a tavern table?
“We’ll find cousin Zee first,” I decided. “Hold him upside down till he spills all he knows of the Glocken.”
Lalena said naught. I turned. She stood before the wall mirror, tracing a finger down the scratch across her cheek. Not a deep or lasting cut. Yet tears shone in her eyes, for some thought not shared. Should I demand to know?
I hesitated, then came up behind her. Gave embrace, and not a word of question.
We found Zeit-Teufel in my study. In my chair, as it happened. I took no offense. I liked Zee fine. The man found joy in the wonders of his family, while others forever ranted and warred in knots of emotion tangled as snakes on a loom. And Zee and I shared a belief in progress, in a future of magical machines that would serve mankind as fairy hands in a magic castle.
Alas, recent future had brought Zee bruises and a crushed hat. He sat in my chair attempting to mend broken spectacles. No wonder his bruises. My study lay in shambles. A window smashed, chair gone, books cast about. I cast my wife stern reproof for violent ways. She cast it right back.
“Blame me not,” avowed Lalena. “Aye, the window’s my doing. But I did no more than dangle poor Zee.” She reached to floor, found a white feather.
Zee looked up, nodding to say our entrance confirmed dark expectation.
“It was that winged specimen family claims Chatterton summoned from out his thousand mad fancies,” said Zee. “I am now prepared to say she’s quite solid. She came in through the broken window. Began ripping through my pockets as though they held fish, and she were all a pack of hungry cats.”
“She wanted the key you found in the box,” I guessed.
“She might have asked,” declared Zee. “I’d have said ‘no longer have it’, and the discussion would have kept on a non-physical plane. But she was upset. I was upset. I’d just been attacked by a mad - ” He considered my wife, “- madly concerned young woman who shook me upside down and claimed the damned thing herself.”
At this Lalena strode to Zee. He stared up from his broken spectacles, rueful but not alarmed. Lalena bent down, put arms about him in warm embrace. Zee did not flinch. On his battered face I saw the same idiot look all her relatives held at such times, no matter tartan or sides in clan battle. They dwelled in a house more complex than any I’d ever build. I, dull outsider, stood forever banished to the doorstep of their common heart. And lucky to be grudged that much.
“Why would she want it?” I growled. Not jealous; merely impatient.
“To save Chatterton,” answered Lalena, as Zee said the same.
If I were to pit one man against a brigade and bet against the brigade, it would be Chatterton Espada. Could even mad Em and Ed match the man? In came Lalena’s cousin, Billy River.
“Ach, he’s alive,” exclaimed the man. “And with pants on.”
“Pity, that,” said Doe, following him in. “I mean the pants. Glad he yet breathes.”
“What is the reason for this strange and lascivious habit for rooftop lechery?” remarked Father Bright, following her.
Lalena straightened from embracing battered Zee. Attempted growl, but it broke to giggle. Adjusted her pale hair, pale face, and adopted her most solemn mask of demeanor.
“Emily and Edgar Espada are alive,” she informed all.
“Well that explains the rooftop trysting nicely,” said Bright.
“No it does not,” I retorted.
“Then what does?” asked Doe.
I considered. What did explain it? “The King is dead,” I declared. Folded arms to say Accept the explanation, or don’t.
“Ah,” said Billy River. “Well, alas for his majestic madness. But I rejoice to hear two lost cousins walk the waking earth. Never met
Edgar save in dream, when the sky turned to clouds of blood. But I recall Emily at a revel. Dancing like a mad thing, laughing like a flame.” He turned gaze to the past, then recovered. Glanced about the room. “Ah, they aren’t in the house now, are they?”
“Not that I know,” I shrugged. “But don’t expect them to ring the bell.”
“We shall gather in the dining room,” commanded Lalena of all. Lady Lilly-Ann Elena Mac Sanglair. “In ten minutes’ time. Find who else of the family has not fled the house, and if they be of sensible sort command their presence.” She waved hand in royal see-it-so.
“What for?” I asked. Breakfast, I hoped, yet in my heart I doubted.
“Council of war,” answered Lalena.
Chapter 13
Council of War, Interrupted by War
I have taught the spadassin arts. Fencing, fighting, poisons, the craft of passing unnoticed. Climbing walls, opening locks, detecting spies. It shames my soul to admit I made a mediocre teacher. I only exchanged coin for instruction. Never inspiring any student’s soul with a desire for mastery.
Unfair; for my own life has run rich with true teachers. Keeper, who taught me rough work and rough kindness. Major Dark, who schooled me to face a foe. The Badger, who delighted in revealing the secret ways of locks, latches and guards. And my tutor Master Clive, who inspired a love of language, poetry and logic.
Upon a dull day in midst of dull reading, he ordered me to stand on the piano stool. There to read aloud from Paradise Lost. Perilous orders. The stool wobbled, slowly rotating. One needs must pay attention to balance and epic alike. I do not suffer heights since without contemplating war and falling angels.
“From those deep throated Engines belched, whose roar emboweled with outrageous noise the Air, and all her entrails tore, disgorging foul their devilish glut, chained Thunderbolts and Hail of Iron Globes…”
I stopped to picture that, for all that the stool continued its spin. “He means cannons, doesn’t he?”
The Clockwork Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans Page 8
