It looked for all the world like a man, crouching belly down, with his hands curved in a circle before him. His head was down, half-buried in the ground, his mouth open in a silent yell.
“What the hell is that?” said Brenner.
They rode nearer. Slate pulled up at a safe distance, but Learned Edmund spurred his horse forward.
It wasn’t until she saw the horse and rider approaching the strange statue that Slate realized exactly how huge it was. The thing was the size of a house. Its open mouth could have held a team of horses.
Learned Edmund practically fell off his mount in front of the thing, tossed its reins to the ground and ran forward to touch it.
“Well, it looks like someone knows what it is,” said Slate.
She reined in a few feet from Learned Edmund. He was stroking the material of the statue, which up close didn’t look like stone as much as it looked like ivory, except that was impossible because you couldn’t get a piece of ivory the size of a house, and if there were any seams, they were hidden well.
“Is it a building? Some kind of temple?” Slate asked.
Learned Edmund didn’t so much as glance back at her. “No. I think it’s a…wonder-engine.” His voice was full of awe.
“What’s a wonder-engine?”
“Nobody’s really sure. Some of them do things.” He stretched up a hand as far as he could, and ran it tenderly down the ivory surface.
I’ve been made love to with less enthusiasm than a celibate guy is fondling a big ivory…thing. Possibly it’s time to rethink my life.
“What sort of things?” Brenner wanted to know.
“Miracles. Marvels. Completely useless things. It doesn’t seem to follow any particular pattern.”
“Learned Edmund,” she said tiredly, “is it going to try and kill us?”
He had to stop and think about it. Slate pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a hysterical bubble rising in her throat. It was going to come out as a sob if she wasn’t careful.
“I don’t think so, no. It doesn’t seem to be moving.” He frowned. “I suppose it’s remotely possible it might kill us. But no more than a house or a wagon or a windmill might.”
“Good enough.” The bubble went back down. “Let’s set up camp. I’m about done in, and this is as defensible a spot as we’re going to get.”
Nobody argued.
It’s a miracle.
They made camp in the bay formed by the circled arms of the wonder-engine. The gaping mouth behind them was unsettling—if it had been an open cave, Slate would have insisted on setting up somewhere else—but it ended in a smooth, tongue-like sweep a few feet back. The only hole was a narrow, drain-like opening at the top, a tiny throat for such a large mouth. With the horses picketed in a wall across the open side of the bay, they were as well protected as they were likely to get.
It took only a few minutes to get a fire going, which was a good thing, because Slate didn’t think she had more than a few minutes left in her.
“Sit, sit,” said Learned Edmund. “Let me see to your wounds.”
“Slate first,” said Caliban, although he was practically swaying on his feet. “She took the worst of it.”
Bloody chivalry again, but he’s probably right. Slate sat down onto a rock. The shirt pulled where it stuck to the punctures. Learned Edmund knelt in front of her, frowned, and turned to dig through a saddlebag.
All at once. All at once is better. It’s like a bandage. Do it fast.
Slate took a deep breath, grabbed the hem of her shirt, and ripped it off over her head in a single savage yank.
Her shriek was not noticeably slowed by her clenched teeth, but she managed to bury most of it in the folds of the shirt around her head.
“Mistress Slate!”
Slate opened her eyes blearily. Am I dying? Did I just give myself a mortal wound?
Learned Edmund had fallen over backwards, and had a sleeve over his eyes.
Did I hit him?
“Mistress Slate—you cannot—you—modesty forbids—”
Brenner’s howl of laughter tipped her off. Ah. Yes. Those. She glanced down at herself. There were ugly bruises across her torso, and several shallow oozing holes. Blood had painted her skin with a thin, irregular layer of clotted red. As an object of erotic interest, her breasts currently rated somewhere below a dead flounder.
“Look,” she said tiredly, “I don’t have anything Brenner hasn’t seen before, Caliban’s a paladin, you’re sworn to celibacy, and Grimehug’s the wrong species. Just sew me up.”
“But—”
“Hey Edmund, I hear that if you hold your breath, it keeps your genitals from withering.”
“Shut up, Brenner.”
The scholar rubbed his forehead. “Yes. You’re right. It is shameful for me to be concerned with such things when you are in pain.”
She patted his shoulder absently, too tired to be gratified when he didn’t flinch.
Learned Edmund looked a little green by the end of it—whether from being forced to touch feminine flesh, or the task at hand—but he managed. Most of the antler wounds hadn’t actually penetrated the skin, leaving ugly round bruises instead. Only a few actually required bandaging.
Despite his difficulty in looking directly at the injuries, Learned Edmund did a skillful job patching her up. Slate had been treated by licensed healers with a touch that wasn’t half so delicate.
The tattoo was actually the worst. A thick line of blood had crusted under its teeth and the skin gaped open. Cleaning it was excruciating and Slate had to chew on a knuckle and look away.
“I barely know what to do with this,” said Learned Edmund honestly. “I should sew it so that it doesn’t scar, but—I don’t think it’ll let me.”
“Leave it,” said Slate. “If I get out of this with just a scar there, I’ve been lucky.”
She looked away, and saw Grimehug sprawled out on his side by the fire, like a dog. He smiled at her with all his sharp teeth. Firelight reflected orange in his eyes.
“Should use gnole medicine, crazy lady.”
“Gnole medicine?”
“Lick it till it feels better. Then eat grass. Works every time.”
“As your physician,” said Learned Edmund testily, “I do not recommend that.”
Slate grinned.
The scholar ran his hands over her ribcage to make sure nothing was broken, a process he undoubtedly found more uncomfortable than she did, despite the bruises.
“What do you recommend, then?” she asked, as he finished and began scrubbing his hands furiously.
“Keep your wounds clean. And sleep. As much as we can arrange.”
Slate was only too happy to obey.
Chapter Sixteen
They stayed in the wonder-engine’s valley the next day. Slate was in no shape to move. Caliban had lost his voice almost completely, and was speaking in hoarse whispers. The horses were exhausted.
And Learned Edmund? He was in rapture over the wonder-engine anyway. He’d filled a notebook with meticulous sketches and measurements, which had mostly involved a patient Caliban, a snide Brenner, and a very long ball of string.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever described this one,” he told Slate excitedly, waving a book at her. “It’s a completely new wonder-engine!”
“Is that good?” Slate asked, wrapping her fingers around a cup of tea.
“It’s wonderful! There are only about thirty wonder-engines known to exist in the entire world! To find a new one—our names will live forever in history!”
He can actually utter that phrase with a straight face. I have definitely fallen in with the wrong sorts of company.
“Do they all look like people?” she asked.
“Doesn’t look much like my kind of people,” said the gnole, who was laying on his back by the fire. Slate had been very warm last night, with the gnole sleeping in a ball at her feet like a hairy rug. She’d offered him his own blanket, and he’d looked hurt. Appare
ntly gnoles slept in piles. Since both Slate’s feet and her love life were cold, this was fine by her.
“Sorry, Grimehug. Do they all look like human people?”
“No, actually. Some of them do look like humans. Some look like animals, apparently, and some resemble buildings, or are more abstract conglomerations of parts.” He made vague gestures with both hands, defining a shape Slate couldn’t even begin to recognize.
“Any gnoles?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Their loss.” Grimehug closed his eyes again.
“Who made them?”
“No one knows.”
“How old are they?”
“Good question.”
Slate pinched the bridge of her nose and tried once more.
“Do they know what any of them do?”
“A few. One on the coast turns salt water to fresh water. One in Moldoban incinerates everything they put into it—they worshipped it as a god with human sacrifices for many years. Now it’s a waste disposal system.”
Slate chuckled into her tea, though she was pretty sure he wasn’t joking.
“And there’s one that, if you put in gold, turns it into fresh pears. I’m not sure how they figured that out.”
“What a waste,” said Brenner, who was lying stretched flat on one of the wonder-engine’s arms, like a big dark cat. He propped his head on his crossed arms. “Any of them turn fresh pears into gold?”
“Not that I know of. Although this one might, for all we know. We could try it, if we had any fresh pears.” He consulted his notes. “It seems inert to everything I’ve tried. It doesn’t respond to being fed rocks, grass, handkerchiefs, tea leaves, horse hair, human hair, gnole fur, copper coins, iron filings, leather, blood, saliva, semen—”
Slate put her hand over her eyes. Well, we can’t question his…ah…passion for science…
“—water, wood, fire, charcoal, potatoes, parchment, ink, fingernail clippings, bread—”
“Okay,” Brenner broke in, “I get the point. You don’t know what to feed it.”
“Do they all work like that?” Slate asked. “You put something in, and something else comes out?”
“Most of them. The incinerator is the only one that they’re not sure about, and it’s arguable that you’re putting something in and getting fire out.” He shook his head. “The authority on wonder-engines, ironically, is Brother Amadai. If we can find him in Anuket City, he will be excited to hear of this one.”
“Do you think we’ll find him?” asked Brenner.
“There is no value to despair,” said Learned Edmund primly. “We must hope.”
Brenner gave him a look.
The dedicate sighed. “He was known as an eccentric genius. He went to Anuket City after some ancient writings turned up in the markets there. His first few correspondences were full of notes, theories, addendums to papers, that sort of thing—and then they tapered off. For two years, there has been nothing.”
“Took you awhile to send somebody after him,” said Brenner.
Learned Edmund shrugged. “In truth, we thought he was probably busy and had forgotten to write.”
Brenner laughed.
Slate took another drink of tea. It was peppermint, laced with the last of their poppy milk. Her eye was caught by motion, and she gazed down the slope, to where Caliban was slicing at shadows again.
“Your big friend do that a lot?” asked the gnole.
“Do what?”
“Chop up air with that crazy big sword.”
“Temple knights of the Dreaming God are required to practice their swordwork for at least two hours a day when not on specific assignment,” said Learned Edmund idly, turning a page.
“No wonder they’re all so stiff,” said Brenner. He rolled over. “Anyway he’s not required to do that temple knight stuff anymore.”
“I wonder if he knows that,” said Learned Edmund.
“Mmm.” Brenner sat up and slid off the ivory wall, slouching off across the grass. Down the hillside, Caliban finished dismembering a shadow and had dropped to his knees in prayer.
“I hesitated to ask with our friend here,” said Learned Edmund carefully, “but you seem troubled, Mistress Slate.”
Slate glanced up, surprised.
“It is none of my business, of course.” He flicked an imaginary spot of dust off his sleeve. “But I have taken confessions for many of my brothers over the years, and if there is anything you wish to confide…well, I am good at keeping other people’s secrets.”
Slate had a strong urge to yell “Over the years? You’re nineteen!” but didn’t because that would have been unkind. Instead she said “I’m surprised you noticed anything, with the wonder-engine here.”
“Ah. But you have a very methodical mind, Mistress Slate, and when I asked you about taking measurements, you offered no advice, nor did you demand to double check my figures. And Brenner has said several cutting things to you in the last few hours, and you have not replied in kind.” He put his fingers together. “From this, I deduce that something is preying on your mind. But if it is not something you wish to share, I understand.”
Slate gazed down into her tea. A misogynist practically half my age offering to take my confession. Oh, well, it’s no weirder than anything else…
“I have been, yes.” She set her teacup down. “I suppose…if you’re not afraid that hearing me talk will turn your bowels to water.”
Learned Edmund spread his hands ruefully. “So far it appears to be a very slow process.”
“Mmm.” She laced her hands behind her head and leaned back on the grass. The sky was blue, framed by the yawning ivory mouth of the wonder-engine. Grimehug wiggled around to lay his head across her feet.
“Well…thing is…hmm, where to start.” She frowned up at the clouds. “See, back when I was first sentenced—they got me for treason, by the way—I expected to die. My life was over. It was pretty much just a matter of filling in time before they hung me.
“Then I got this reprieve—except that it wasn’t really a reprieve, I just had to fill in even more time before I died, you know? I still felt like I was walking around dead.”
“That must be hard,” said Learned Edmund gently. He can’t do the voice as well as Caliban, Slate thought wryly, but it still isn’t bad.
“Actually, no.” She ran a hand through her hair, raking out bits of grass. “It felt almost liberating. If you know you’re going to die, you don’t have to be afraid of anything. The worst has already happened. What more can they do to you? So I didn’t have to worry about going to Anuket City, I didn’t have to worry about wandering around with a psychopath and a guilt-wracked paladin and an insufferable priest—”
He made a polite scoffing noise. She flicked a blade of grass at him.
“And then, my horse ran away with me.” Her smile faded. “And I nearly died. And I realized I…really didn’t want to. I’m not done with my life yet.” She frowned up at the sky.
“Living is always hard,” said Learned Edmund.
“Yeah, but most of the living don’t have to go back to Anuket City.”
“Unfinished business there?” the scholar asked.
“Oh, yeah.” Slate pinched the bridge of her nose. “And frankly, Edmund, that scares me half to death.”
“You have done very well, though.” He reached out and patted her on the shoulder, and barely hesitated at all. “Your first act after rediscovering your fear was to charge after friends in danger. That’s not the act of a coward.”
“Oh, well, that.” She flushed. “Didn’t do much, really.”
“Not to hear Caliban tell it.” Learned Edmund considered. “Have you told him of your fears?”
“Caliban?” She sat up, rolling Grimehug off her feet. The gnole squawked. “No, thank you! He already thinks I’m weak, the arrogant sod, hell if I’m rolling over and showing him my throat.”
Learned Edmund’s eyebrows went up. “I…hmm.” He steepled his fin
gers. “I doubt he really thinks you’re weak. But—well, I can see him saying something unfortunate, yes.” The priest sighed. “He is proud. But he carries an enormous load of guilt for his crimes, and pride is part of what motivates him. And he is so afraid of failing again.”
“Hmmph.” Slate folded her arms. “Well. He did apologize. I’ll give him that.”
Learned Edmund eyed the stubborn set of her jaw and sighed again. “I don’t know. I’m only a scholar, and sometimes not much of one. I sit under the greatest discovery of my life—” he gestured to the wonder-engine, “—and all I can think is that it would be good to sleep in a real bed again. Perhaps we’re all weak.”
Slate unbent enough to smile a little. “You’re not the only one, Learned Edmund. I’d give my hope of heaven for a real bed at this point.”
“Well,” he said, sniffing, “hopefully nothing that extreme will be required.”
Slate laughed. And then sat up, suddenly, her laughter cutting off. “Oh! Gods! I forgot—can you imagine? I forgot!”
“Forgot what?” asked Learned Edmund, startled.
“The second team they sent. The journal. The rune caught them.” Learned Edmund stared at her in non-comprehension. “Oh—look—here!”
She dug into her packs and came up holding the map case.
“This is a military case,” said Learned Edmund doubtfully.
She snapped it open and pulled out Brother Amadai’s journal.
“Mistress Slate! Is that…?”
He snatched the book from her so quickly that he didn’t even seem to care that their fingers touched. His bowels were clearly not nearly so important as the journal.
A few minutes later, they were all gathered around. Slate leaned over Learned Edmund’s shoulder, which he hardly noticed, and Caliban had sheathed his sword and come to investigate.
Brenner, virtually illiterate and not particularly bothered by that fact, was consulting the map that the second group had left behind.
“This is it,” said Learned Edmund. “This is the journal. This is his.”
“What are the odds?” asked Slate.
Caliban frowned down at her. “Not dreadful,” he rasped. “Not as bad as they could be. I suspect the rune demon was drawing in any travelers she suspected of having something to do with the Clockwork Boys.”
Clockwork Boys: Book One of the Clocktaur War Page 21
