The Wonder Engine_Book Two of the Clocktaur War

by T. Kingfisher

  “My scribe,” said Learned Edmund.

  The man pursed his lips, looking from one to the other. He clearly knew full well that the dedicates of the Many-Armed God were not fond of women.

  “I read seven languages,” Slate lied smoothly, “and am sworn to celibacy. The god has graciously allowed me to transcribe the words of his dedicates.”

  The man rolled his eyes but gestured them onward. “You may remove nothing,” he said. “Return volumes here, and we will place them back on the shelves.”

  Slate bowed and followed after Learned Edmund.

  “Do you read seven languages?” whispered the dedicate.

  “Hell no. Two well, and I guess I can get by in the third one. Fortunately, everybody uses the same numerals and almost everybody does their accounts in one of the trade languages.”

  Learned Edmund shook his head and smiled. “I…well. All right. Brother Amaudai’s records aren’t here, though.”

  “Where did they go when you asked?”

  “Through a door back here.” He led her to the back of the stacks, where a door was set unobtrusively in the wall.

  Slate glanced around and tried the door. It was unlocked. She nodded to herself.

  “We need to kill time for an hour or so,” she said.

  “We are in a marvelous library,” said Learned Edmund. “I do not think that will be a problem.”

  While Edmund lost himself in rapturous indexing, Slate kept an eye on the librarians. The one at the front desk was bored. Another one roamed the stacks, replacing books, scrolls, and portfolios of paper.

  After a few moments, she approached the man at the front desk. “Pardon, but are there privies here?”

  He jerked a thumb out the door, toward the main hall. Slate went out, found them—they had comfortable wooden seats, which was nice—and then returned.

  She went out again about forty minutes later, smiling awkwardly at the man at the desk, and returned.

  After the fourth or fifth time in two hours, he no longer seemed to be noticing her. He didn’t question it, though. Slate thought, not for the first time, that men had no real idea about the bladder capacity of women.

  Or maybe he thinks it’s that time of month. Either way.

  “Leave in ten minutes,” she murmured to Learned Edmund.

  “But—“

  “Trust me. I’ll be fine. He’s not counting how often I go in and out. But if you’re here, it’ll remind them that I’m supposed to be here too. I’ll find my own way out.”

  He looked at her over his glasses. “Mistress Slate, be careful.”

  She grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll be turning your bowels to water again before you know it.” She reached for the door handle, opened it soundlessly, and slipped inside.

  Slate had been in the Artificer’s Guild Library Archives twice before, although it had been years ago. She was pleased to see that they hadn’t changed anything much. There was still a narrow corridor lit by lamps, the chimneys tall and covered with screens to prevent soot from escaping.

  She walked briskly down the hallway, feeling in her element for the first time in months. This, she understood. Monstrous living siege engines, dead demons, live demons, politics of war…those were all above her paygrade, and if she’d had her way, they would have stayed there.

  Breaking into libraries and digging through the files, though…

  She’d always liked the Guild Library. The Guild itself could be a bunch of hidebound, backbiting, condescending bastards, but the Library was organized. Everything that came in was indexed and the index itself was neat, legible, and once you understood the system, easily navigated.

  If you were trying to lift something from the archives, this was a glorious gift. Slate had once had to pull files from the corresponding guild library in the Dowager’s city, and had been horrified to discover that this was not a universal trait. She had spent six days breaking in through a skylight every evening and trying to decipher the archivist’s idiosyncratic system of organization. By the end, she had been sorely tempted to have Brenner murder the man as a service to both thieves and accountants the world over.

  The archives were kept locked, which inconvenienced Slate for the space of about two minutes. She slid a lockpick out of her sleeve and popped the tumblers by feel, one ear pressed to the door.

  She didn’t hear anyone inside, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

  The lock clicked open.

  She listened for another minute, then opened the door and slipped through, closing it silently behind her.

  The archives appeared to be empty, but Slate didn’t trust appearances. She ducked down one of the rows of bookcases and waited.

  Nothing happened. No one came and demanded to know what she was doing.

  Slate listened for footsteps, turning pages, breathing…anything to indicate human presence.

  Silence.

  Well, every artificer I’ve ever known was a night owl. I’m beating the rush.

  She stood up, brushed herself off, and went back toward the door.

  And there it stood in all its glory, chained to the pedestal, same as it had been a decade earlier—the index.

  Learned Edmund may have been on to something. A good index is a thing of beauty.

  There were two parts to the book, one organized by the date of acquisition, one by author. Slate wasn’t certain of the exact date that Brother Amadai’s effects had come into the hands of the Artificer’s Guild. She tried the name instead.

  To her moderate annoyance, Amadai had been a frequent contributor to the archives. There were multiple numbers after his name, each of which corresponded to a place on the shelves. Most had an “L” prefix, indicating that they were in the main library itself.

  Those must be published monographs. You figure that dead men don’t contribute too many books, so I probably want the last entry by his name…

  The last number indicated a position in one of the smaller rooms off to one side. Slate had to pop another lock, although this one was so perfunctory as to be almost insulting to her talents.

  Her heart sank a little at the sight of the room. Bookcases ran to the ceiling and boxes full of loose papers spilled out over the edges.

  Index, don’t fail me now…

  Scraps of paper were haphazardly applied to the outsides of boxes and many had fallen to the floor. The archivist with the militant organizational skills seemed to have let things slide in this room.

  Slate sighed and rolled up her sleeves.

  And this is why people like Brenner will never replace people like me…

  It took nearly two hours. Slate had to stop once and hide as people came into the archives, but they had no business in that particular room and did not seem to even notice that the main door was unlocked.

  She tucked herself into a gap in a bookcase and sat in silence, waiting.

  Her mind wandered after awhile, as the people in the main room showed no sign of leaving. Questions for Sparrow about the excavation of the wonder-engines. Questions for Grimehug about gnoles. Really cutting things to say to Brenner. Can never have enough of those, really…

  Her nose itched. She dug out a handkerchief and prayed that she wouldn’t sneeze.

  It was one of Caliban’s, of course. She wondered where they went to when she lost them.

  She didn’t mean to keep losing them. They just sort of vanished. Probably there was a trail of misplaced handkerchiefs stretching clear back to the Dowager’s city.

  Great shoulders. Always has a handkerchief. Gods above, if he would just make a damn move…

  She wasn’t going to make the first move. Not after he’d rejected her last time.

  Shit, maybe I really should just roll Brenner again. Mooning around after a paladin like this can’t be healthy.

  Working with the assassin in the Grey Church had brought back memories. Not always good ones, but oddly comfortable ones. They had worked well together. Still did, when the occasion demanded
it.

  She remembered one job in particular. She’d been crouched down, working a lock with intense concentration. A tricky five tumbler job and she’d broken two picks on it before getting the fifth one popped.

  She had straightened up, turned around, and found Brenner lowering a corpse to the ground behind her.

  “Brenner!”

  “You were busy, darlin’.”

  “You could have said something!”

  His teeth had flashed in the shadows. “Locks are your job. Killing’s mine. Figured I’d let you get on with it.” And he’d swept past her, through the door she’d just opened, knives at the ready, doing his job.

  Not that he was ever bad with locks, but he also never had a problem admitting I was better. Which is a rare enough virtue in the world, even if it is attached to Brenner.

  The main door closed as the archivists left again. Slate listened for a few minutes to make sure that all of them had gone, then crawled out of her hiding spot.

  Let me see…where was I…

  She narrowed it down to what she thought was the right shelf, pulled out a paper from a box, read the name, and put it back. Not that one…not this one…interesting theory on artesian wells, but no…aha! This handwriting looks familiar…

  Victory!

  She had stared at Brother Amadai’s particular cramped and crooked handwriting long enough to recognize it. The box was full of loose papers, scattered notes, and several journals.

  Any which of might be critical. I’m going to have to take the whole damnable box.

  Slate stifled a sigh. She hadn’t really expected any better.

  She pulled the box free and lugged it out into the main archive room.

  All right. Now I just have to go out the window onto the second floor roof…

  She went up a bookcase like a ladder, setting the box down on a shelf, going up to the next, and pulling it up to her level. It was inconvenient, but nothing she wasn’t used to.

  The windows were kept tightly shuttered to keep light from getting in and fading the ink. Slate unlocked the shutters, swung them open…and stopped.

  Huh. Those bars weren’t there last time.

  She tapped her fingernail against her teeth, thinking.

  She knew from experience that there was no other way out of this room, unless there was some kind of secret door. Slate had no interest in digging around looking for that sort of thing—they weren’t as common as people seemed to think, and in a building run by artificers, the odds were pretty good it would explode anyway.

  If it had been one or two books, she could have hidden them under her robes, but thirty pounds of assorted paper was going to be a bit more difficult to deal with.

  Well.

  Needs must…

  Slate did not love books the way that some people did, but she respected them. If she was going to do this, she wanted to use something no one would miss.

  She climbed back down, lugging her box, and flipped through the index.

  All right, what have we got to work with…

  Slate ran her finger down the page and found something that looked promising. Anatomical drawings of chickens, first and second drafts. I suspect the world will limp along without these.

  She located the box. There was a completed monograph on top, covered in dust. Slate removed the monograph, set it on the shelf, and hefted the box in her arms.

  She could just carry the two boxes, one under each arm. One of the oil lamps were a little more difficult. She had push the door open with her foot.

  Now, let’s not mix up which box is which…

  She reached the main library, slipped through the door, and set both boxes down. No one was in sight.

  Brother Amadai’s notes went on the bottom of a nearby shelf. Slate took a deep breath and upended the oil lamp onto the chicken drawings.

  They caught with a satisfying whoosh. She dropped the oil lamp into the box, took a deep breath, snatched up Amadai’s box and bellowed “Fire!” at the top of her lungs.

  Twenty-Six

  It was regrettably hard to climb a drainpipe carrying a box of papers. Slate resigned herself to using the door like a respectable person.

  How galling.

  She could at least use the back door. She slouched through the courtyard of the inn, past the potted plants, trying to be as invisible as possible.

  Not that anyone here cares, but it’s the principle of the thing…

  “Ugh,” said a female voice in the scullery, carrying through the open door. “Where’s my hot water?”

  “Went up to the bronze suite again,” answered another woman’s voice from deeper in the inn.

  “Again?”

  “They called for another bath.”

  Slate, who was in the copper suite across from the bronze, hid a smirk behind the box.

  “For the pretty knight, was it?” The scullery maid laughed. “Well, I won’t begrudge that one.”

  “Pretty with the armor off, too,” said the keeper of the hot water.

  “Oh, you never did!”

  Slate, who had been past the scullery and on her way to the back entrance to the inn proper, found herself stopping and examining a potted plant with great interest.

  “No,” admitted Hot Water. “Walked in to ask if he needed anything else, that’s all.”

  “I can imagine what else you thought he needed,” said Scullery.

  I’m jealous, thought Slate, examining the hard knot in her gut as if it belonged to someone else. How about that?

  “Can’t blame a girl for trying. Last knight came through here was sixty years old and looked like he’d swallowed a fish.”

  “Ah, get on with you…” More laughter and a splash and something Slate didn’t quite catch.

  Slate picked up the box again and hurried through the door.

  I’ve got no right to be jealous. I offered once, he turned me down, and we’ve been dancing around each other like idiots ever since.

  Besides, you’re not the only woman in a twenty-mile radius any longer. There’s no reason someone who looks like that would be interested in a cranky forger who looks like me when he had a city full of options available.

  Anyway, she only looked. I said myself there’s no crime in looking.

  This was all entirely logical and true and she repeated it to herself several times on the way up the stairs and then Caliban opened the door and she snarled “Don’t you take enough baths?”

  He said, “Uh?” His hair was still damp and plastered against his forehead. Then chivalry took over and he grabbed the box she was balancing. “Did you walk the whole way from the Artificer’s Guild with this?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I took a carriage to the main square and then walked around the block in the other direction so the driver wouldn’t know where I went. It was only about two blocks, not thirty.”

  He set the box down on the table. No one else was in the main room of the suite. “Learned Edmund will be glad of the notes, I am certain.”

  Slate glared at him.

  “Is something wrong?” he said, and then, somewhat worriedly “…my liege?”

  I am being ridiculous. And I am taking it out on Caliban. Which is unfair and also unsportsmanlike.

  If I kicked him, he’d apologize for getting in the way of my foot.

  She exhaled. She was thirty years old, for the love of all the gods. She knew better. She was acting like a teenager.

  “No. I just…”

  She trailed off because there was nothing she could think of to say.

  Hell, if I kissed him, he’d probably apologize for getting in the way of my lips.

  That might be an interesting apology.

  They stared at each other across the room for so long that Caliban’s worried look faded and was replaced by something else entirely. He stepped away from the table.

  Five steps across the room. Three for him, because his legs are longer. And then I’d be close enough to…to…

  �
��to remember that I’m too bloody short to reach any higher than his collarbone.

  He took one of those steps forward, then another.

  The strong taking advantage of the weak. Shouldn’t we be worrying about that?

  Caliban was not looking at her as if she were weak.

  Slate felt her breath come a bit faster and she tilted her head up so she could meet his eyes. She wondered if her face was as easy to read as his.

  His lips parted and she thought Please, gods, don’t let him say something stupid that I’ll have to kick him for, and then Learned Edmund opened the door and said, “Mistress Slate! You succeeded! I prayed for you but I was afraid…”

  Caliban appeared to suddenly recall an urgent appointment on the other side of the room.

  “Yes,” said Slate, “I got a box of Amadai’s notes. I hope those are the right ones, because they’re definitely not gonna let me back into the guild hall.”

  Learned Edmund looked suddenly worried. “Mistress Slate! You didn’t damage the archives!?”

  “Nothing anyone will miss,” said Slate. “And they weren’t very good chicken drawings.”

  Learned Edmund’s eyes went wide.

  “Look, I wouldn’t just burn things at random.”

  “Mistress Slate!”

  Slate rolled her eyes. “They put it out immediately. I made sure there wasn’t anything nearby that could catch. And I charged out screaming fire at the top of my lungs with the box under my arm.”

  “But the damage—”

  Slate could feel her irritation returning. “Learned Edmund, it’s the Artificer’s Guild. They can deal with fire better than anyone else in this city. That’s why the whole place is made of stone. I wouldn’t set a fire in a library if I thought there was any kind of chance that it would do more than singe a few bricks. I’m not a monster.”

  “But—”

  “And now we have Brother Amadai’s notes.”

  That silenced him.

  Slate lifted her head and saw Caliban watching her across the room.

  “Are you going to lecture me about taking risks alone?”

  Paladins were not known for their sense of self-preservation, but this one still had sense enough to step back from the brink. “Under the circumstances, I don’t see how you could have done otherwise. Though if I had known, I would have gone with you to wait outside the hall.”