Clockwork Boys: Book One of the Clocktaur War

by T. Kingfisher

  “Err,” said the Captain. “Learned Edmund, this is Mistress Slate. She will be in charge of your mission.”

  “What?” said the Learned Edmund, turning to look at Slate.

  “Learned Edmund is a dedicate of the Many-Armed God,” said the Captain, making furious little head-jerk gestures at the man in question.

  Ah. Of course. Caliban stifled a groan. The Many-Armed God was portrayed carrying six pens, one in each right hand, and six books, one in each left. His scholars lived rigidly monastic lives, copying out ancient libraries. They were breathtakingly brilliant men, one and all—the Many-Armed God simply didn’t take anyone who wasn’t a genius.

  The key word, though, was men.

  Unfortunately, their rigid lifestyles tended to leave them xenophobic, misogynistic, and anything else one could care to name—but very, very brilliant.

  The sad thing, thought Caliban, is that he’s probably exactly the sort of scholar we need to get to the bottom of this. Not that it may matter…

  Learned Edmund stared at Slate. Slate stared at Learned Edmund.

  “Why am I not to lead this mission?” asked the dedicate, turning back to the Captain.

  “The Dowager has placed Mistress Slate in charge, on the understanding that she is the most knowledgeable at orchestrating such…clandestine operations.”

  Brenner’s probably at least as good, but I can’t imagine the Dowager spending thirty seconds in his presence. There’s me, of course, but what I know about breaking and entering can fit in a thimble.

  “I am not comfortable with a member of the distaff sex leading us,” said Learned Edmund.

  Slate’s arm twitched in Caliban’s grip. He was surprised her feet were still on the floor, and more surprised that people still used the phrase, “distaff sex.”

  “And I don’t see why I am not in charge,” the scholar continued, oblivious. “These three are, after all, criminals, are they not?”

  “I’m an assassin!” said Brenner brightly.

  Caliban put his free hand over his mouth. The Captain suffered a sudden coughing fit.

  “Indeed,” said Learned Edmund, giving Brenner a dismissive look. Apparently subtlety was lost on him.

  Brenner gave Caliban another look, which clearly said, I tried. Your turn.

  The paladin sighed. “I am Knight-Champion Caliban, of the Temple of the Dreaming God.” He cleared his throat, the immensity of the falsehood nearly choking him. “Former Knight-Champion, I should say.”

  Learned Edmund seemed to loosen a bit. “Oh. A spiritual brother—I see.” He offered a hand.

  Caliban flicked a glance at Brenner, who casually slid his foot between Slate’s ankles.

  It’d have to do. Caliban dropped her arm, clasped the scholar’s hand, and bowed.

  “It is an honor to serve beside a dedicate of the Many-Armed God,” he said.

  Brenner rolled his eyes. Slate got herself back under control and shook the assassin off. She was absolutely expressionless, except for a certain tightness around the lips.

  “Yes—an honor, but still—”

  “Are you from the monastery in northern Ghaston, Learned Edmund?”

  “I—yes—”

  “I traveled there once, some years ago. A lovely area.”

  “Yes, very. And you’re changing the subject, Knight-Champion. I am still not comfortable traveling with a woman on such an important mission!”

  Damn. Well, I tried…

  “I promise, we’ll keep her from ravishing you in the night,” said Brenner.

  The dedicate flushed. Slate said, “Shut up, Brenner.” The Captain had his hand over his eyes again.

  Into this dreadful moment, the knock on the door fell like a stone into still water.

  Everybody looked at the door. Finally the Captain called, “Come in.”

  It was a guardsman: young, looking a little grey.

  “We have a situation out there, Captain.”

  “I’ve got a situation in here at the moment—nevermind. What is it?”

  “Another case of blight, Captain.”

  The Captain frowned. “We’ve got procedures. Keep people away from the body, and call the bonepickers. They’ve got orders to burn them—”

  “Captain, it’s a kid. The mother won’t leave it. She’s been holding it for a couple of hours, and there’s no way we can get her away from the body without one of us getting exposed.”

  The Captain’s face went a little grey himself. Caliban felt a shudder lurking at the base of his spine. Ah, gods, sometimes there are no right answers…

  “Several hours?” said the Captain quietly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then she’s already exposed.” His voice was very flat. “Go over to the crossbowmen and have them draw straws—”

  “I’ll do it,” said Brenner.

  The Captain stared at the assassin. “You?”

  Brenner shrugged. “Yeah, I’m scum. But none of your boys will shoot half as straight, and there’s nothing I don’t know about quick and clean.”

  “He’s very, very good with a crossbow, Captain,” said Slate, almost inaudibly.

  The Captain’s nostrils flared. For a moment, Caliban thought he would throw the proffered help back in Brenner’s face, and small blame if he did. What a deal with the devil that is…

  Then: “Very well. Smithkin, get this man a crossbow and take him to the scene.”

  Smithkin looked even greyer.

  Brenner paused on the threshold, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “If the blight gets worse, you’ll want to get a sharpshooter. Probably a couple of them.”

  The Captain nodded slowly.

  The door shut behind them.

  There was a long, brittle moment. Caliban waited for Slate to either catch it or smash it into a million sharp-edged pieces.

  Slate drew herself up to her full height, which put her only a little below the scholar’s eye-level. “I believe, honored dedicate, that we have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

  Learned Edmund opened his mouth, and Slate lifted a hand to forestall him. “Believe me, I realize that this is not an ideal way to proceed, for any of us. Had we the choice, we’d perhaps choose differently. Nevertheless, we’re what you’ve got to work with. Now, I am certain that we all share the same desire, do we not?”

  “Do we?” asked Learned Edmund skeptically.

  “We do. The defense of the Dowager’s kingdom against the Clockwork Boys is uppermost in our minds, believe me.”

  That’s true, anyway. After a fashion.

  Learned Edmund nodded. “My temple has charged me to assist in this matter. And, if I may, to ascertain whether Brother Amadai still lives.”

  “Brother Amadai?” said Caliban.

  “The scholar in Anuket City,” said Slate.

  Ah. The one who had gone missing. Caliban vaguely remembered something about that, although he’d been distracted by the tattoo being inflicted on him.

  Learned Edmund clearly did not like agreeing with Slate, but said “If he is still there, yes.”

  “I believe that our goals align, then,” said Slate. “We all wish to reach Anuket City swiftly and as safely as we can.”

  The dedicate narrowed his eyes. “I do not wish to deal with unseemly displays of emotion on the road,” he warned.

  “I’ll attempt to keep my weeping and vapors to a minimum.”

  It was probably a good thing Brenner had left. Caliban wondered how long it had been since the Learned Edmund had exchanged words with a woman at all. He was guessing a good decade.

  The dedicate swung around and looked at Caliban. “And you have no objections to placing yourself under this woman’s command, Knight-Champion?”

  The Knight-Champion doesn’t think it’ll matter a pig’s eye who thinks they’re in charge, Caliban thought, but aloud he only said “None whatsoever, Learned Edmund.”

  If we get out of the city gates without killing each other, the gods will have granted us a miracle.r />
  “Very well, then,” said Learned Edmund. “If we must.”

  The Captain pried his hands away from his eyes, and looked over the group. “Well now,” he said, with false heartiness, “now that that’s all settled. We’ve arranged horses—I believe you’ve seen to your own supplies. I’ve gone over your planned route and I have papers so that you can cross the border at Archenhold…assuming you can get there.” He favored Slate with an ironic smile. “Not that you couldn’t have seen to your own papers, I’m sure, Mistress.”

  She smiled faintly and inclined her head. “I’ll let you know if I think of any improvements on yours.”

  “The army is expecting you. They are under orders to render all reasonable aid.”

  Caliban wondered what “reasonable aid” would look like, and if it would make walking into the teeth of the Clockwork Boys any less suicidal.

  “You leave tomorrow, then.”

  They all nodded. Slate walked out the door, her back ramrod straight.

  “Sir Caliban—” The Captain held out a hand to stall his leaving, eyes flicking over the hilt of the sword across his back. “Are you sure? I’ve been thinking—you’re a knight, after all, and it might not be too late—”

  “It’s much too late, I think,” said Caliban, and let the door fall shut behind him.

  They spent the last night in the capitol the way they’d spent the previous few. Brenner went out on some errand of his own, Caliban sliced at shadows in the courtyard, and Slate forged every document she could think of that might possibly make their lives easier down the road.

  Dinner had come around, and Caliban had returned and taken another bath. The man bathed more than a cat. Slate supposed she couldn’t blame him—in his shoes, she’d probably be trying to make up for lost time too. Still, it seemed like every time she saw him, he was soggy.

  He was sitting in front of the fire, eating and steaming slightly, when someone knocked on the door. Slate pushed her chair back to get it, but he got up instead, sword in hand, which would have been more menacing if he hadn’t also had a towel over his shoulders.

  “Paranoid much?” she asked.

  “The servants already brought dinner, and Brenner never bothers to knock.” He opened the door.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said one of the servant boys, “but—errr—” His eyes crossed on the blade.

  The knight put it away. “Yes?”

  “Package for the lady.”

  “Thank you.” He took it. The boy fled, not waiting for a tip.

  Slate hefted the package, baffled. There was a faint gurgle. Ink? I didn’t order any more ink…She found her letter opener and slit it open, then laughed aloud.

  A bottle of very old whiskey sat nestled inside, along with a tiny soapstone carving of a dog. There was no note and no return address, but she hadn’t expected one.

  “What is it?”

  “A thank-you from the Stone Bitches. A fine group of women, one and all.” She sat the bottle on the table. “Although if I try to drink very much of this, I’ll be under the table.”

  “I’ll help,” he said, sitting down opposite.

  She peered at him over the top of the bottle. “Are paladins allowed to drink stolen whiskey?”

  “This one is.”

  “Excellent.”

  She poured two glasses, raised hers. “To…err…”

  “To dying well,” Caliban said, clinking his glass with hers.

  “Hear, hear.”

  Four seconds later, Slate remembered why she didn’t drink whiskey. The drink burned her tongue and her throat and her belly and the fumes went roaring through her nasal passages and made her choke, which made her sneeze, which went dreadfully wrong.

  Caliban reached out and plucked the glass from her fingers. Slate said, “Gnnnrghh…Thank you.” She sneezed again.

  He reached into a pocket and pulled out a handkerchief.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He poured himself another shot. “You weren’t kidding about the allergies, eh?”

  “I am allergic to everything,” said Slate, with a certain grim pride.

  “Including prisons, as I recall.”

  “Oh, that. No, that was a family thing.” She propped herself up on her elbows, her eyes watering. “My grandmother was a wonderworker from down south. Every time there’s magic or danger or just something I’m supposed to pay attention to, I get this horrible blast of rosemary.”

  “Rosemary?”

  “Yeah.” She blinked blearily at him. “You reeked of it. S’why I asked you.”

  “Did I? Hmm.”

  “Yeah, apparently I was supposed to pay attention to you.”

  The words hung in the air between them for a little too long. Slate looked away from his eyes and searched for something else to say. “You want to look at our route?”

  “Will it help?”

  She gazed into the bottom of the whiskey. “Realistically, no. But I suppose anything’s possible.”

  He helped her unroll the map, and pinned one corner down with the bottle.

  “Hand me the dog,” said Slate. Their hands touched fleetingly as he dropped the soapstone figure into it. His skin was much warmer than hers.

  Must be all those baths. The man doesn’t have time to get cold.

  “Right,” said Slate. “So we’re the dog here, in the Dowager’s city. Nice and surrounded by mountains, very defensible, all the ore you could want. Even a good bit of pastureland, if you don’t mind mutton three meals a day. They’re not gonna starve us out. Only problem is that the only way out is along the river, here.” She traced the blue squiggle of the Falsefall River as it wended its way through the mountains.

  “Where the Clockwork Boys are coming in,” said Caliban. “When I…ah…stopped getting regular news, they were afraid that the Clockwork Boys would bottle up the opening to the river valley.”

  “Yeah, that happened last month. Jammed into the mouth of the valley like a cork in a bottle.” She gazed at the soapstone dog’s position glumly. “I wish that wasn’t such a good metaphor. We’re all stuck in the bottle and the Captain expects the lot of us to wiggle our way out around the cork.”

  “Lovely.”

  “The army is theoretically holding them at a ford about there.” She stabbed a finger into the map.

  Caliban stared at the map. “That’s nearly a third of the valley lost!”

  “Oh, more than that. There’s reports that a couple columns of the Boys got through and they’re raiding along the trade road.”

  The paladin sat down opposite her and rested his forehead against his fist, studying the map. “And we need to get past the…cork, as it were…to reach Anuket City.”

  “Yep.” Slate made the dog walk the length of the valley and hop to the point where the Falsefall joined up to another, larger river from the north. At the Y-shaped intersection, she set the dog down. “Anuket City.”

  Caliban shook his head. “That’s a lot of war zone in the way,” he admitted.

  “Exciting, huh?”

  “Not the word I would have chosen.”

  “Well, hopefully we’ll fare better than the last group that went that way...”

  He blinked at her. Slate realized that their faces were rather too close together and sat back.

  “The last group?”

  “What?” said Slate, with studied nonchalance. “You think we’re the first ones they’ve sent out? They had two proper groups before us. Actual military and artificers and everything.”

  Caliban picked up the bottle and poured them both another drink.

  “There’s a reason they’re down to prison scum now. First batch got squashed by a clocktaur column. In full sight of the military outpost, I’m told.”

  Caliban winced. “And the second group?”

  “Oh, this is the fun one.”

  “…Fun.”

  “Well, for a value of fun.” Slate picked up the dog again. “See, the Captain would really l
ike it if we could find the second group…or what’s left of them.”

  “Would he, now.”

  “Yeah, the Captain would like a lot of things.” Slate snorted. “They think they checked in at the army outpost here, although we should probably double-check on that. Fog of war and all. After that, they lose track of them completely.”

  Caliban tilted his head, eyes narrowing, and said, “I gather from your expression there’s more to it than running afoul of a Clockwork Boy.”

  “Oh, I have no idea how they died,” said Slate. “It might be exactly that. What matters is what they had with them. Brother Amadai’s journal.”

  She sat back with an expression of triumph. Caliban looked blank.

  “The scholar from Anuket City,” said Slate. “The one our extremely obnoxious dedicate is hoping to track down. The reason the Many-Armed God people are involved in this at all.”

  “I was a little distracted when he was talking,” said Caliban. “I was hoping you wouldn’t go for his throat.”

  “Well, it was a near thing.”

  Caliban gazed into his drink, clearly fighting back a smile.

  “Right,” said Slate. “So Amadai is some kind of genius and he went off to Anuket City ages ago because that’s where the best artificers live. Anyway, the spies that are mostly dead now? One of them got a package out before they got caught, which was this journal from Brother Amadai. That’s part of how we know he’s involved. And the journal had drawings of the Clockwork Boys in it, although Amadai’s handwriting was abysmal and a lot of bits seemed nonsensical. So they sent the journal along with the second group, who were supposed to be meeting up with our dear friend Learned Edmund here on the other side of the blockade, in hopes that Learned Edmund could decipher more of it. The spy couldn’t include any kind of notes with it, but they’re hoping it might have a key to stopping the Clockwork Boys.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. I’m told the Captain got a rather plaintive homing pigeon message two weeks after the meeting time, asking where they were.”

  “So they didn’t make it,” said Caliban thoughtfully. “And the journal?”

  “Presumably with their bodies, assuming they weren’t murdered by bandits who tossed it on the fire.”