Machine

by K. Z. Snow

  “Damn it,” Will muttered. “Idiot.” Of course Fan wouldn’t be angry with him; Fan never got angry with him. But Will nevertheless blamed himself for his lack of foresight.

  He hoped Clancy was tucked within his sleeping nook, wherever it was, hale and oblivious. He hoped that tonight Simon would greet Clancy with a fanfare of fury—the purgative kind that springs from inexpressible relief. He hoped there’d be no more hand-wringing or hidden tears, no more gray undercurrents of collective anxiety undermining everybody’s peace of mind.

  Will adored Fan and cared deeply about their friends. The four of them had become family. Simon was like a sometimes-annoying, sometimes-amusing older brother. Clancy was the eccentric uncle, the dark side of the moon while dear, departed Penrose had been the bright. Then Will remembered how unchaste these family ties were—he and Clancy had slept with both Fan and Simon—and he wondered if he should think of their group in a different way.

  Smiling, he told himself, No. “Family” is appropriate.

  Tired of bouncing and jinking along rutted dirt roads, Will was glad to see Taintwell come into view. No one would ever have thought it a pretty village. More quirky than quaint, it had been pieced together over the course of centuries. Mongrels who’d heard of the settlement simply drifted its way like windborne seeds.

  Will had never seen so many improvisational building techniques and materials as he’d seen in Taintwell. Foraged trees and scavenged stones. Mud, straw, dung, clay, and moss. Even driftwood and shells from the shore, and stout rope and oakum-edged timbers and planking from abandoned fishing boats and wrecked ships. In fact, two Taintwellians lived in old boats, forever grounded far from the bounding sea.

  Homes and shops leaned, sagged, bulged, or stood straight beneath roofs of sod or thatch, slate or tin or wood shakes. Dirt lanes meandered hither and yon, as if wearily trying to follow the buildings that cropped up wherever new residents chose to build them. Mongrels loved color, too, and made no attempt to apply it with harmony in mind. Walls, doors, window frames, and fences shrilled for attention, like members of a discordant choir trying to out-sing their fellows.

  Roughly a century earlier, Fan had told Will, a kind of village board was formed. An attempt to impose some order on the settlement seemed long overdue. These unpaid selectmen laid out new streets, named the old, and recorded and defined existing plats (which led to a good deal of bickering, for Taintwellians had never much bothered with property lines). The board also established a village square around an artesian well. Soon, a gazebo ringed by flowerbeds stood in the center. Business owners were encouraged to relocate around the square, which residents stubbornly referred to as the Green.

  The village was then called Dark Corners. A few months later, Purin Province renamed it Taintwell.

  “You haven’t the dark corners where broken wings beat.”

  As if his recollection of the name Dark Corners had the power to summon, Will’s field of vision was suddenly filled by a chilling sight. The Spiritorium stood on the Green.

  The OMT wobbled as Will briefly lost control of it. He parked at the edge of the grassy square near a towering, ancient oak that reigned over one corner. Clattering in the breeze, its leaves looked like a tangle of restless claws. Several fell and skittered away as Will got out of his vehicle.

  Clouds drifted across the sky. Sunlight faded and flared, and the wagon pulsed from dull brass to brilliant gold. Again, no horses were present. Again, that wasn’t much of a mystery. Taintwell was littered with stables.

  Crouching down, largely concealed by the tree’s enormous trunk, Will pretended to study his transport as if searching for some malfunctioning part. If someone approached him, he’d simply grab the jug of water Fan always carried in the OMT and refill its boiler.

  Two tent signs stood at either side of the Spiritorium and two staked signs listed in front and in back of it. FOR HIRE and INQUIRE HERE read the former. ALL SOULS DAY read the latter—a cryptic proclamation that, unlike the messages on the tent signs, wasn’t professionally painted.

  A Taintwellian woman Will knew only as Mrs. Rumpiton spoke animatedly with the velvet-clad ghosty man, who sat on a stool with his back to Will. She nodded, then nodded again. He held her hand and patted it. Mrs. Rumpiton turned away and walked in Will’s direction.

  He resumed peering and poking at the OMT until the woman was close enough for a greeting. Niceties out of the way, Will indulged his curiosity. “What’s all that about?” he asked ingenuously, lifting his chin toward the gilded wagon. “I’ve never seen it in Taintwell before.”

  Nervous and preoccupied, Mrs. Rumpiton glanced over her shoulder. She held her hands in front of her skirts and kept rubbing one over the other. “He provides a unique service. And I… I thought I’d try it out. I must do something about Ulney. He’s been abusing his powers. He has a wild streak, you know. A Nittyville woman who buys rugs from me said, ‘Hire the Spiritmaster if he comes through. He’s a godly man. He’ll know what to do.’”

  Will hadn’t lived in Taintwell long enough to be familiar with every resident’s situation, so he had to dig around in his memory to make sense of these confidences. Yes, Mrs. Rumpiton wove rags into rugs and had customers throughout the province. Her husband liked his drink but wasn’t a drunk. Her son was in his teens. Was Ulney the husband or son? That, Will couldn’t remember. Nor could he recall what Ulney’s powers were. Was he the one who could summon and direct insects?

  “What’s that man’s name?” Will asked. “Where does he come from?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Rumpiton. “He was going to give me his card, but I didn’t want Ulney or Daggit seeing it. His name doesn’t matter, though, does it? What matters is whether his methods are effective.”

  “I hope you achieve the result you desire.” Will had no idea what he meant, but there was little else he could say without sounding nosy.

  Mrs. Rumpiton again looked toward the wagon when she saw Will’s gaze shift in its direction. “Oh my,” she whispered, lightly laying a hand on his sleeve. “What could Mr. Fober want with the Spiritmaster?”

  Will was wondering the same thing. Jusem Fober was an inveterate womanizer who’d never shown any inclination to change his ways. Roughly a month ago, Will and Fan had heard at the Roundhouse tavern that some trouble was brewing due to Fober’s escapades. That normally didn’t happen. He was as stealthy as a fox, and scrupulously discreet. So perhaps he’d finally been scared into turning over a new leaf.

  “I must get home,” Mrs. Rumpiton said. “It was nice seeing you, Mr. Marchman. Please give my regards to the Eminence.”

  “I shall do that, Mrs. Rumpiton.”

  Will thought he should get home, too. He could hardly sit here all day, spying on his neighbors while feigning a mechanical breakdown. He’d invite suspicion if he dawdled much longer—and what reason, after all, did he have?

  Besides, Simon was waiting for him. Or at least waiting to hear from him.

  After flicking imaginary dirt from his jacket and brushing imaginary dirt from his hands, Will cast a final look at the gilded bulk of the Spiritorium. Jusem Fober had departed. The Spiritmaster stood beside his fancy wagon.

  Looking straight at Will.

  He made a beckoning motion. Will’s skin prickled and tightened. After a moment’s hesitation, he reluctantly let his legs propel him forward. Damn his damnable curiosity!

  “I want you to come clean with me,” the ghosty man said forthwith, bunching Will’s coat sleeve in his gnarled fist. The statement, spoken through clenched teeth, sounded like a threat. “So you’ll be clean. And your Out-dweller consort will be clean.” On each emphasized word, he gave Will’s arm a shake. “It is my mission to sweep through this once-hallowed ground and redeem it!”

  Aghast, Will tried to pull away from him, but the man wouldn’t release Will’s arm.

  From the corner of his eye, Will saw a figure racing in his direction. A tall, familiar figure, his rough jacket flying out behind h
im, his powerful strides measuring out long stretches of grass. Before Will could react—

  “Get away from him!” Fan roared, sounding fiercer than Will had ever heard him, sounding like a dragon defending its young, as he gripped the stranger’s shoulders and flung him aside.

  Or tried to.

  The Spiritmaster stumbled but didn’t fall, although he looked considerably older than Fan. Any other person would’ve landed on the ground ten feet away. Transfixed and anxious, Will glanced back and forth between both men. They looked… they looked like….

  “You,” the stranger grated, his sharp gaze raking up and down Fan’s tall frame. The glance he darted at Will made a damning connection. “And a filthy two-door, no less. I can’t say I’m surprised.” He muttered something in a foreign tongue, but the name Quam Khar stood out.

  Will gaped at the angular figure, the exotic man of stone. Why had he targeted them? Why did he seem to despise them? Not because they were twors; he’d just now leapt to that conclusion, and with no real evidence to support it. Not because Will was a Pure and Fan was a Branded Mongrel; he couldn’t be certain of that either. And what, if anything, had all this to do with that Quam Khar person?

  The self-appointed judge (for that was how he now seemed) dipped to the left, frowned for a moment at the side of Fan’s head, then extended a hand and flicked at Fan’s windblown hair. Will gasped at this inexcusable liberty. Glowering, Fan jerked away.

  The judge curled his lips. “Well, well. Small wonder I couldn’t see the verification. They found you guilty of buggery and cropped your ears. What a peculiar punishment. You should have been stoned or hanged or at least had an S carved into your forehead.”

  Will stepped forward. “That’s not why his ears were—”

  Without looking at him, Fan stiff-armed Will from getting any closer to the stranger, at whom he stared spears of ice.

  Any second now, Will feared, Fan would do something horrible to the man. Fan would suck the light from his eyes and swallow it, which meant it would be gone forever. The Spiritmaster would be blind for life.

  Will clutched at his lover to get his attention. “Calm yourself, Fan. Don’t do anything rash. The city authorities won’t tolerate it. You’ll be arrested.”

  “It would be worth it.” The reply, spoken in a hard, cold voice, was shockingly sincere.

  The stranger echoed “Fan” on a scornful laugh, as if he were spitting badly cooked food from his mouth.

  “Just leave him be,” Will pleaded when he saw how Fan’s face had changed, how it quivered with suppressed rage.

  “He can’t leave me be,” the stranger said, sneering around the words. “I’m sure it isn’t in his nature to leave anything be. Nor is it in mine.” Narrowing his eyes, the man lifted his nose and grimaced. “Dear God, how much of an abomination are you two? Do you also consort with blood drinkers? I can sense at least one beast’s presence in your lives.” His gaze slid to Will. “Ah, your friend, the one I saw you with yesterday! Is he the link, or is there, God forgive you, a more direct connection? Because as sure as I’m on this Green, I’ve stumbled upon a clutch of mandrakes, at least one of whom is a vampire.”

  Will’s face gathered in confusion. More, in dread. How could this newcomer know all these things? “Who are you?” he whispered. Without waiting for an answer, he shifted his gaze to Fan. “Who is he? Tell me. I know you know.” His certainty had come but a split second before he voiced it.

  A scudding cloud dimmed the sun. Slowly, the stranger looked at Will and smiled.

  With a gesture as graceful as Clancy Marrowbone’s movements, he pulled a card from one of his pockets and handed it to Will.

  Hand quaking, Will read:

  Zofen Perfidor

  Foe to Evil

  Friend to Good

  Master of the Spiritorium

  “He’s my father,” Fan said from far away.

  Chapter Four

  “YOU STAYED away for over thirty years. Why are you back? Why?”

  “I have my reasons. And purposes.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your reasons and purposes! Take your wagon and your venom and get out of my village. I’m warning you, Zofen, stay away from every soul who lives here.”

  “Your village? I lived in Taintwell before you came along, Fanule. And what an unpleasant surprise that was.”

  Fan closed his eyes and took deep breaths.

  “What happened to your mother?” Zofen asked. “Why can’t I detect her presence?”

  “She left Taintwell,” Fan murmured. “Many years ago.” When he opened his eyes, Will suddenly wondered why the resemblance between father and son hadn’t hit him sooner. “You’ll never be able to hurt her again.”

  Zofen’s expression was impassive.

  “Let me see your ears,” Will blurted out.

  Fan shot him a look that Will refused to meet.

  The elder Perfidor pulled off his headwear and tossed it on the seat of his wagon.

  Will’s jaw went slack as he stared in awe. The ears were breathtaking. He remembered how Fan had described his own ears—before the cropping, of course—shortly after he and Will met: “They were upswept and tapered, as elegant as wings.”

  “Yes.” Will could only mouth the word.

  These were what had been taken from Fan in the subbasement of the old Truth and Justice Building. These were what the shears had amputated—these magnificent features, as architectural as they were anatomical, with their graceful, sweeping curves culminating in delicate peaks.

  “And more a part of me than anyone could ever know.”

  Yet here Fan stood, a victim of butchery, being mocked by the very creature who’d given him that essential part of himself. Zofen’s cruel insensitivity was enough to drive Will mad. At that moment he would’ve done anything to restore his lover’s ears to their natural state. He would’ve ripped them from the father’s head and used magic, if he could, to give them to the infinitely more deserving son.

  “You bastard,” Will said to Zofen Perfidor, his voice quavering.

  “I’m afraid you have that wrong, young sir. It’s your partner in sin who’s the bastard.”

  Only then did Will see Fan sprinting back across the Green. He untied Cloudburst, leapt into the saddle, and sent the horse galloping toward their home.

  As if he were trying to outrun a nightmare.

  WILL CREPT through the front door when he got home. Minutes later, Fan banged in through the rear.

  “Are you satisfied?” he shouted as soon as he entered the parlor and spotted Will. His color was high. Alarmingly so.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Now that my humiliation is complete. Are you satisfied?”

  Wounded by the implication, Will extended a hand. “But I only wanted—”

  Fan’s eyes sparked. “What? You wanted what? To measure the extent of my deformity against perfection?”

  “No!”

  Ignoring Will’s protest, Fan spun away. “I won’t allow that son of a bitch in my life.” He shoved the sofa, the rug rippling against its mahogany legs. “I don’t want him anywhere near me. He used my mother for his own pleasure, and he created me, a parasite spawning another parasite, then he rejected us both because through me she’d polluted his precious Quam Khar blood with that of a human being.” Fan slammed the side of his fist against a wall. “And that faithless swine, that smug, sneering pig, dares to call me an abomination?”

  The glance he shot at Will was so sudden and fierce, Will took a step back, bumping up against the sideboard. Decanters clinked, a stack of mail shifted, and a lamp thumped as it tilted and fell back onto its base. Sunlight continued to shimmer serenely through two of the parlor’s four windows.

  “You know, William, you’re as trusting and tenacious as my mother was. And to an equally foolish degree. You need to stop clinging and learn when to let go.”

  Before Will could enliven his tongue to say something—not that he had any idea what to
say—Fan stomped into the bedroom. The command “Leave me alone” was the last thing Will heard before the door slammed shut.

  Those words and their predecessors pierced Will to the quick. He stared, stupefied, at the space Fan had vacated. Never before had Fan spoken to him like that, much less done so in anger. Never.

  Heartsick, Will shuffled over to the sofa, paused, and cast an indecisive look at the bedroom door. He thought of the unnatural brightness of Fan’s eyes, the deep flush of his cheeks, his frightening flare of temper. Were these merely understandable reactions to a painful shock? Or had Fan been neglecting to take his medicine?

  Perhaps both. As busy and preoccupied as they’d both been, Will hadn’t been able to monitor Fan’s intake of his custom-blended tonic, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Fan make a decoction.

  That explanation was easier for Will to accept than the other: that Fan had been dissatisfied with him for a while and had only been trying to do the honorable thing by making the best of their living situation. Now, under stress, he could no longer sustain the happy-couple pretense.

  Will walked to the bedroom door and gave it a few tentative raps. “Fan? I’m sorry to disturb you, but have you been drinking your—”

  The door swung open, and a face like wrath itself scowled from the shadows.

  “—medicine?” Will’s stomach fluttered, as if a threatening revenant had appeared in Fan’s place.

  “Did I not ask you to leave me alone?”

  “But Fan, you have to—”

  The irate phantom receded and the door closed.

  “Oh dear,” Will whispered.

  He went back to the sofa, dropped down, and stretched out on his back, an arm flung over his face. How could he make things better? How?

  HE BURST from sleep and sat up. The house was dark. Someone was knocking on the back door. As Will stumbled into the kitchen, Simon Bentcross and Clancy Marrowbone appeared before him.

  Gods, I’d forgotten all about them! At least Simon’s fears had been unfounded. Clancy was all right.