You're always around when I don't want you, he mused to himself. And now that I do, you're nowhere to be seen.
He found him eventually in one of the other inns that dotted the city. The Horse and Hook, run by Cameron Hamhart, a tall fellow with a distinct chinstrap beard, and one who was never seen out of his bear-stained sleeveless undershirt. It seemed Jacob had worked up quite a tab at the Olive Inn, and Gus was no longer willing to serve him. It was not the least bit surprising to find him at a bar.
Good, the general thought. You'll need a drink.
“Jacob,” he called out, finding the smuggler slumped on the counter.
“I helped Tardo,” Jacob said quickly, seemingly feeling the need to explain himself. “I'm on a break. Everyone's got to have a break.”
“Indeed,” Rommond said, tapping his finger at Jacob's empty whiskey glass. “Some even eat when they're at lunch.”
“Just whetting my appetite.”
“With some neck oil?”
“Got to keep the gears in good order.”
“Indeed.” Rommond nodded to Hamhart, who smiled in return. “A sherry for me. I presume another whiskey for him.”
Jacob gave a thank you, mid-hiccup.
“Seems you're already more than a little inebriated.”
“You mean sloshed?”
“Quite.”
Jacob shrugged. “Not much else to do around here.”
“I had hoped to find you in a better state,” the general said, “but maybe there's not really a better state for this.” He fired a coil across the counter towards the barman, which Jacob caught mid-slide.
“Funny, huh?” he said, seemingly not registering any of Rommond's words. He turned the coil around in his hands, settling on the image of the Iron Emperor, with his colour-changing eyes. “How a man can do so much damage. And here we are, hic, drinking to him.”
“Not to him, certainly.”
“Because of him, then.”
“Those days are ending,” Rommond stated, grasping the glass of sherry the barman just filled. He usually grasped guns.
“Are they?”
“Hopefully.”
Jacob flicked a smile off his lips just like he flicked the coil. “Hope.”
Rommond buried his sigh in his glass, swamping down the lot and pointing to the glass when he got the barman's attention once again. Hamhart filled it up once more, closer to the brim, which he charged extra for, and gave a smile for free. Jacob barely touched his own glass.
“Jacob, what I have to tell you isn't easy.”
The smuggler did not move. He kept his attention on the Iron Emperor's visage, as if he had been caught in that controlling stare.
When Rommond was about to utter the evil words that haunted him, Jacob spoke: “I know.”
The general was caught off guard, something he was not used to, and it unsettled him. “You know?”
Jacob turned slightly to him, just enough to see his teary gaze. “I can feel it.”
Rommond pursed his lips. It was even harder to say it now.
“She's gone, isn't she?” Jacob said, turning the coil around, face down, and placing it on the counter.
Rommond hung his head. “Yes. She's gone. She fulfilled her mission. But now...” He trailed off, turning back to the reassurance of the glass, which masked the tremor in his hand.
“How many of us do you think will survive this?” Jacob asked. “We've lost so many already. I sometimes wonder if we've used up all our luck. There's only so many times you get to cheat death.”
“Jacob, if humanity survives this, I'll be happy,” Rommond replied, “even if you only see my smile from the afterlife.”
“So,” Jacob said, “how do we tell Whistler?”
Rommond bit his lip. “I was rather hoping you would.”
“Hell,” Jacob said. “Guess I better sober up then.”
* * *
No matter how many mugs of coffee he downed, Jacob still felt unsteady on his feet, and not quite steady in mind either. He dreaded the thought of telling Whistler the awful news, but thought that maybe the boy knew it in his heart just like he did.
Jacob wandered through the streets, stumbling every now and then, straightening himself up, dusting himself off, and feigning as much dignity as he could muster. He wondered if he should sleep it off first, but he felt compelled to tell the boy now, to get it over with. He might not have the courage in the morning when he was sober.
He made his way towards the Olive Inn, where he knew Whistler was still walled up, locked away from his attacker, and locked away from what everyone else knew outside. Then, as he turned a corner, Jacob thought he saw the boy walking slowly through the fog. Jacob closed his eyes tight, thinking it was the drink, but when he opened them again, there Whistler was, across the way, with only the ground-hugging smoke between them, like the spectral mist that clings to a grave.
He halted, and the boy halted. They saw each other through the haze, even through their own respective hazes of alcohol and tears. The other people of the city came and went, passing by them and between them, passing through the smog like spectres of their own. They only saw each other, and only thought of the third person that once united them, even if they never truly felt connected to her.
Jacob tried to communicate as much of his concern and sorrow and comfort in his eyes. And for the first time since he had met him, the boy turned away from him, back to the wandering, isolated road, back to the smothering of the smog.
“Whistler!” Jacob shouted after him. “Wait!”
The boy turned back, slowly, still dazed, still overcome. The sunlight reflected off the glisten on his cheeks, and in the water of his despondent eyes. It pierced the smoke, revealing what the grey concealed, and yet it revealed in Whistler a face that was sere and sullen, as if all the colour in him had been sapped out. The russet of his hair, tangled like the gnarled roots of graveyard trees, now seemed more brown than red, and the smoke further killed the colour that the sun tried to imbue.
Jacob hurried over to him, and even as he did, Whistler started to break down. He reached his hands out, but he did not reach them out to Jacob. Maybe he reached out for his mother. He reached for nothing.
Jacob fell to his knees before him and tried to pull the boy close.
“Why didn't you tell me?” Whistler wailed. He bashed his fists on Jacob's chest. It barely hurt at all, physically, but it hurt a lot to see him like this, to feel what he felt, and be powerless to help.
“I didn't know,” Jacob said.
Whistler repeated the rebuke, but weaker now. “Why didn't you tell me?”
Jacob held him close, stopping his flailing arms. “I didn't know, kid. I swear. I didn't know.”
The boy must have smelt the alcohol on his breath. Whistler could not drink it all away, like he could. I'm not sure if that's better or worse, Jacob thought.
Whistler sobbed into Jacob's shoulder, so much so that the smuggler could feel the wetness of his tears. He held back his own, which he naively thought he had drowned in his glass. He had to cry inside, where no one could see, behind the locked door of his heart.
“I thought maybe ...” But Whistler could not finish the words.
Jacob held him closer, tighter, giving him the hug that his mother never did. That he felt it now in her passing was perhaps the greatest tragedy.
“I thought … maybe ...”
“I know,” Jacob said. He really did. It was what he once thought too, and what he silently hoped might still be, until Rommond killed that hope with his arrival at the inn. Maybe we could be a family. It was not to be. Whatever fates had stolen Elizah from them had stolen her mother too. Now there was just Whistler and Jacob left. The smuggler had little room left for hope. It was now buried by the fear that the fates would come back for them too.
6 �
� FUNERAL
For many in the Resistance, funerals were not that common. Not because people did not die, but because people died so often. Most had to make do with a makeshift grave where they fell. Often their coffin was shrapnel or debris, and sometimes it was the bodies of half a dozen fellow soldiers, all fighting for the same cause, all dying for it too.
But this was different. This was Taberah's funeral. Even to those who did not like her, or did not agree with her, her life was a symbol. It meant something. Her death meant something too.
The procession was slow and sombre, led by Rommond and Whistler. To most, it seemed like the boy was holding together well since the news—on the outside. He was probably still in shock. He had not said much. He had not eaten much either. Likely he had not slept at all.
The general kept his reassuring hand firmly on Whistler's shoulder. He knew the overpowering sense of loss. He knew the need for support. He knew when someone was faking strength, because he had been faking it for many years as well. Don't let them see you fall, he had told the boy. Whistler did not answer him, but here he was, walking that dreadful walk, keeping that lip from trembling, not letting anyone see him fall.
The coffin was draped with a deep red cloth, almost as red as Taberah's own hair. Several soldiers hauled it up, then lowered it down as the procession reached the grave. They had to act quick. The wind was picking up, threatening to fill in the hole in the sand prematurely.
As Rommond took out a speech, unfurling the neatly folded paper, Whistler turned around, seeming lost, until he found Jacob in the crowd and hurried over to him. If it was any other time, he might have ran to his mother. Jacob placed both hands on the boy's shoulders, filling that gap left by Rommond. As the general glanced up from the page, he wondered—and hoped—that the smuggler could fill the gap left by Taberah as well.
“This is an evil day,” Rommond began, “out of more than a decade of evils.” He looked to Brooklyn, standing at the back of the crowd, his black hair growing a little, his face and clothes stained with grease and oil, his hands still clutching several tools. He could only spare a moment from his labour to pay his respects. Otherwise, Rommond's eulogy might be for all.
“In this war,” the general continued, “many come and go, and I'm afraid to say that many go before I even learn their names. But we all knew Taberah. No matter how fleeting your encounter was,” and he looked to Jacob now, “she left a mark.”
The smuggler hung his head. In doing so, he looked down to Whistler, who looked down to the dusty earth that was soon to be Taberah's new home.
“Her drive,” Rommond said, “was unlike any other's. Her determination was unstoppable, like a fire that engulfs a forest, passing from tree to tree. That fire she passed onto us. And maybe, if we can keep it alight, and pass it on to others, then part of her will still live.
There were many nods among the crowd. Few had not felt the burn.
“What set her on this path is what set many of us. She experienced the loss that many women did during the Harvest. She experienced the pain that followed. Though it may at times have driven her to the edge, she did not let it destroy her. She used that pain to fuel her, to drive her towards that one great goal she had in mind: cutting the cord to the Birth-masters.
“It was her discovery, by pushing us beyond what we thought were our limits, that gave us the amulets, and that was her pet project for many years, until she finally destroyed the demons that stopped human women from given birth to human children. For that, it is not just us who need to thank her, but our children, and humanity as a whole.”
The nods were fiercer. Some prayed. Some said silent thank you's.
“She was a fighter, right from the start. That made her an integral part of the Resistance. When others gave up and tried appeasement,” and he looked at General Leadman now, who gave him a dirty look in response, “she kept on fighting, fighting the good fight, fighting for the big picture. She died as she lived, fighting. I was going to say that maybe, wherever she is now, she's still keeping up the fight. But she doesn't have to. Because she won.”
If it were not a funeral, there would have been applause.
“The fight isn't over for the rest of us, but maybe it will be soon. Let Taberah's life, and her great sacrifice, be an inspiration to us. Let her success give us a new kind of hope, that we too can win this war. To the fight!”
He beckoned for Whistler to join him, and Jacob came too. He knew this part would be hard, even harder than before. Don't let them see you fall. The coffin was opened for one last farewell. Taberah was in a vibrant red dress, the kind she wore to impress, and the kind she looked clearly uncomfortable in. She looked more comfortable now, more peaceful, and maybe there was even the faintest of smiles on her lips. The tribulations of life were over, and she had many of them to contend with. At last, she was at rest. Rommond wondered if this was the only way he could earn the same.
* * *
When the funeral was over, the people dispersed quickly. There was no wake. There was no time for it. Everyone had to get back to work, preparing for the fights to come.
Lorelai brought Whistler off, and comforted him like a mother would, like Jacob did not really know how to. She might have been a so-called demon, but the smuggler mused that there was a bit of an angel in her. She saw pain, and she came running, hoping to mend the hurt. It did not matter what side. It did not matter what hurt.
Yet the pain of Taberah's parting stung deeper than Jacob wanted to admit, than even the scorpion sting of her rejection of him. He knew it was not personal. He was not even sure what it was about her that enraptured him. Maybe it was her passion, that ever-burning fire. He remembered his words to her, almost a year ago: Whistler said my nickname should be Spider, but why is it that I feel like I’ve been caught in your web?
There were no cobwebs on the gravestone that was hurriedly erected there. It was pristine stone, newly carved, with the words: She fought the good fight. And won.
Jacob was alone, and yet even then he could not muster the words of a prayer. There were no words for this, even though people had experienced it a thousand times before, even though they had written eulogies and sung funeral dirges. The living could only allude to what was happening. The real words, the real language—it came from the dead. No one wanted to hear it, and yet they heard it sooner or later. Sooner for many. Sooner for most.
Jacob was lost in his thoughts, and those dreadful alleys of the mind were evil ideas linger, when he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see a whirling black object approaching from the distance. He might have flinched or recoiled, thinking the Regime had begun their latest onslaught, had he not felt a little dead inside. The object was a monowheel, a large landship-treaded wheel, inside of which sat a familiar figure in a long, dark blue coat. Nox. The Coilhunter.
The monowheel pulled up close, the tumultuous thrumming of its engine filling the cavities of Jacob's chest. The Coilhunter placed a large, buckled boot on the ground, leaning the vehicle with him. A ceremonious puff of smoke came from the exhaust in his mask, just as the last plume coughed from the exhaust at the back of the monowheel. The dust settled, and Nox kicked a support stand out from the side, letting the vessel's weight fall against it. It sunk a little in the sand as he got up. He sighed audibly.
“Am I late?” he asked.
“Didn't even know you'd been invited,” Jacob said.
“I wasn't.”
Jacob did not ask him how he knew. Word got out. Gossip seemed to travel on the winds, and live in every grain of sand. The Regime was probably issuing its propaganda: The Scorpion's Last Sting. The Scorpion Is Dead. They would leave out the part about the Birth-masters' demise, of course. Maybe they were now losing the war, but they could still win the information one.
“The funeral's over,” Jacob said.
“It's never over,” Nox said, shuffling
up beside him. “You bury them forever in your heart.”
Jacob paused. “Were … you close?”
“She struck a chord.”
“Yeah. She has a way of doing that.”
Nox stared at the tombstone. “She had a way.”
“I still can't really believe it.”
“It ain't right, is it?”
“No,” Jacob said. He paused for a moment, feeling like he needed to say something else. He was not sure if he was supposed to be sad or comforting. “I guess that's war.”
Nox eyed him coldly from beneath the brim of his hat. “Is it?”
Another agonising pause. “So, how close were you?”
“Not much. You?”
Jacob pursed his lips. “Not much.” They looked at each other, sharing the words with their eyes, but it was Jacob who spoke them: “Not sure anyone was.”
“She had a kid,” the Coilhunter said, as if to ask what happened to him.
“Yeah. He's devastated. I can't really imagine what he's going through.”
There was that same dead look in the Coilhunter's eyes. “I can,” he rasped.
“Sorry.”
“Why?”
Jacob shrugged. “For your loss.”
“Sorry for yours,” the Coilhunter replied. “But we didn't do it, did we? So, ain't no need for apologies here, boy. We gotta get 'em from those who did.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a rolled-up poster. He let it unfurl with the snap of his wrist, and though the wind caught it and tried to take it away, the words and the image were clear. Wanted. And that familiar face from the front of every coil: the Iron Emperor.
7 – CROWN
Rommond gave the Baroness Ebronah, head of the Treasury, a quick tour of the new clock tower communications rig, where Tardo worked, ate and slept, all in a desperate attempt to get it fully up and running in time for what the general cheerfully called “the big reveal.” General Leadman insisted on accompanying them, and Rommond was certain this was to get an “in” with Blackout's current leader.
Hometaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Action Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 6) Page 3
