Corsets & Clockwork

by Trish Telep

  Over them all proudly flapped the crimson-and-gold flag of the republic.

  A splintering crash rose from beyond the wall beside her. Chiara crept forward and found a giant metal door in the wall standing open. Peering inside, she saw the Guild building itself, beyond a courtyard full of half-finished machines. People were shouting and shooting inside.

  A tall man in a fine French-cut blue suit stood by the doorway to the building, frowning as he looked inside. He was carrying a polished walking stick instead of a gun, and he didn't bear himself like a military man.

  A soldier appeared, clutching the collar of a chestnut-haired young man about Chiara's age who struggled in his grip.

  "He was upstairs in the control room, working alone," the soldier reported in French. Chiara's grandfather had required her to learn French, saying that one could never know enough about one's enemies.

  One more thing she owed him.

  "An apprentice?" The tall man sounded unimpressed and switched to French-accented academy Italian. "Who else is up there? Where's Lezze?"

  "Guillaume LeClerc." The boy sneered. "You dirty French dog--we never should have trusted you."

  LeClerc made a dismissive gesture. "How many others are still in the Guild? Tell me the truth, and I will try to keep the bloodshed to a minimum."

  The youth spat into LeClerc's face. The soldier threw him down into the courtyard and kicked him in the side. Chiara sucked in a breath. The boy was brave, but he was going to get himself killed.

  "Should I take care of him?" the soldier asked, lifting his rifle suggestively.

  "No, no, he may be of use at the Gate. Tie him up and take me to the control room. If they have a graphocaster, I'll signal our commander to tell him we've reached the Guild."

  "Yes, sir." The guard kicked the young man again for good measure and unslung the small pack on his back, pulling out rope. A minute later, the apprentice was bound and gagged and left in the courtyard, and the guard and LeClerc vanished inside the building.

  Chiara ran across the cobbles and knelt next to the young man. He gave her an amazed look.

  "Shhh." She pulled the guard's balled-up handkerchief out of his mouth.

  "Ah, you're an angel! What's your name?"

  "I said 'shhh,' signor." She moved to one side and began plucking at the tight knots around his wrist. "Maestro Lezze sent me. He gave me his medallion as proof, but I lost it."

  "Il maestro! Where is he? Does he know--"

  "He stayed back to protect the doge."

  "Is the doge all right?"

  "The French shot him in the leg. I ... I think he'll live." She swallowed a lump in her throat.

  She hoped he'd live.

  "I hope so, as well." The apprentice sounded worried. "Can you manage the knots?"

  "They're tight." She stopped. "If there's a piece of sharp metal out here, maybe ..."

  "Move back, signorina. My familiar will help."

  She sat back, curious.

  "Tizzo," he whispered, "are you there?"

  A flame ignited the rope around the youth's wrists.

  Tizzo was a salamandra.

  "You'll burn yourself," she warned.

  "Maybe a little." He gave her a confident smile. "It's all right; I'm used to it."

  Chiara glanced away, taken aback by his casual attitude. The metal lions had stopped roaring, but the soldiers inside the Guild were still shooting and shouting.

  "Are there many engineers inside?"

  "No, don't worry. Almost everyone was in Venezia for the festival." The boy couldn't hide his sudden wince as the flame reached his flesh.

  "Tizzo, stop!" Chiara demanded. "I'll do the rest."

  The spark wavered once and then obediently flickered out. She yanked on the charred rope, breaking the last strands.

  The young man pulled his arms away and she caught his hands, turning them palm up to inspect the damage. His flesh was cool from commanding the little salamandra, but blisters had formed from the elemental's heat.

  "Tizzo obeyed you," he observed with fascination. "Not many people can command elementals other than their own. Who are you, signorina?"

  "Chiara." She met his rapt gaze and felt a shock run through her.

  Nobody had ever looked so deeply into her eyes before.

  Her breath quickened and her pulse started to pound.

  "You're very beautiful, Signorina Chiara," he said.

  Flustered, she blushed and released him.

  "Come on." Why was she letting him affect her like that, when they had more important things to do? "We have to get out of here before they see us."

  "I'm Pietro," he said, standing. "I know where we can hide."

  "What about--" she looked back at the building.

  "I activated a few combat automata that ought to keep the soldiers busy for a while." He smiled again with the same calm, confident expression he'd shown before.

  "But--the others?"

  "There are no others. I sent all the other apprentices away to warn their families as soon as we saw the boats and the rifles." He took her hand and urged her through the courtyard and into the alley.

  "You mean, you were the only one in there?"

  "I'm Maestro Lezze's assistant. It was my duty to stay as long as I could."

  "Then you're the one he sent me to meet!"

  Pietro glanced back at her, his hand tightening on hers.

  "Was my master all right when you left him?"

  "He hadn't been shot, but he was cut and shivering from his summonings."

  "Ah, stupid." Pietro sounded worried. "He keeps forgetting his age. His body can't handle that kind of strain anymore."

  Chiara tugged her hand out of his. "He's not stupid. He jumped between me and the French, and he made sure I was safe before he headed back."

  "Well," Pietro said, his smile returning, "at least he's not stupid enough to ignore a pretty girl."

  She didn't know how to respond to that, so they wound through tight alleys and tiny campielli in silence for several minutes.

  "Where are we going?" she asked at last.

  "I can't take you to Maestro Lezze's house. LeClerc has been there before. But I know some smaller workshops, ones LeClerc never visited. We can hide in one of them until nightfall."

  "Will a real alchemical engineer be there?"

  "I'm a real alchemical engineer. Almost."

  "Pietro!"

  "No. They all went to the festival. I'm sure they'll stay to fight the French."

  Chiara held her other questions as they skirted the milling invasion force and headed out to the city's borders. A narrow road along the outskirts led to a small stone building with a canal behind it.

  Pietro pulled a strange-looking tubular key out of his pocket. He twisted and turned it until all the notches were in a particular order and then inserted the key into the metal lock on the door, opening it.

  As Chiara entered, she realized that the door and the frame were both made of painted iron. This was more than a mere farmhouse.

  Pietro pulled down a lantern and called Tizzo to light the wick, revealing a metal-reinforced laboratory filled with tables covered with ornate glass tubes and retorts, funnels, and flasks.

  "Brezza, please be careful," Chiara warned as her familiar curiously swept from table to table, rattling the delicate tubing.

  "Your familiar is a silfo." Pietro sounded pleased. "Perfect for an angel like you." He grabbed her right hand and brought it to his lips, his brown eyes warm as he gazed admiringly at her. "I haven't thanked you properly for rescuing me."

  Chiara blushed. The skin on the back of her hand burned where his lips had brushed it, and she was suddenly aware that, despite his apprentice's uniform and callused hands, Pietro was a handsome young man.

  She pulled her hand away.

  "Stop it. This is no time to flirt."

  "I'm not flirting; I'm stating a fact. I hadn't thanked you for rescuing me. We alchemical engineers always prefer facts to flirtation.
"

  She shot him a look and saw the twinkle in his eyes.

  "You're not an alchemical engineer; you're an apprentice."

  "Only for two more years."

  "And you need to be more serious," she scolded, turning away. "My grandfather was shot by those soldiers. People are dying out there."

  His smile faded and he nodded, pulling around chairs for both of them.

  "You're right." His expression darkened. "The Guild was wondering if Napoleon would make another attempt on Venezia after his escape, but we never heard a word. LeClerc knows us and our agents too well."

  "Who is LeClerc?"

  "A French alchemist who studied here in his youth. He's come back to visit several times, despite Napoleon. My master trusted him." Pietro ran a hand through his hair. "He knows too much about our defenses."

  "Maestro Lezze told me to come to the Guild and tell you what happened. He said you'd know what to do. But I'm sure he never thought the Guild would be betrayed." Chiara rubbed her temples, feeling tense. "Now what?"

  "You said he gave you his medallion?"

  "Yes, but I lost it when I was attacked." She quickly explained what happened.

  "I hope the French find that man and shoot him," Pietro exclaimed, angrily. "Threatening a desperate woman is despicable."

  She leaned forward and touched his knee, shaking her head.

  "No--if they find him, he'll tell them about me. It's better if he gets away."

  Pietro gave her a puzzled look, his eyes flickering over her dress. Chiara self-consciously ran a hand over her dusty and salt-stained skirt and hid her feet beneath its hem. The soles of her shoes were getting holes in them; they'd never been intended for rough cobblestone streets.

  She looked like a wreck.

  "Why would the soldiers want to find you? Certainly, the French appreciate a beautiful woman, but--"

  "My grandfather is the doge," she said, cutting him off before he could embarrass her further.

  To her amazement, the color drained from his face. He stood, nearly stumbling over his chair in his haste.

  "I ... I ..." he stammered, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

  Chiara rose. Pietro seemed scared to death, and it occurred to her that she should have mentioned her last name.

  "It's all right," she said. "I should have said something. I forgot."

  "I ... I would never have brought you here ..."

  Oh! Chiara looked around, chagrined.

  If she'd caused a minor scandal simply by being alone with a guard inside the palace, being alone with a young man in a remote farmhouse could ruin her reputation entirely.

  Which, she thought with frustration, was absolutely ridiculous.

  "Oh, stop it. You're not going to get into any trouble. My grandfather was the one who told me the Guild could help me in the first place. So relax and help, and everything will be all right."

  He shifted from foot to foot, avoiding her eyes.

  "I'm sorry. I don't even know how to address you. Nobody ever taught me court etiquette."

  "It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is getting my grandfather free and driving the French away."

  He nodded but kept his eyes fixed on the dusty workroom floor.

  "Look--Pietro--just sit down and act like you did before." She sank back down into her own chair. "I need you to help me figure out what to do next."

  "All right." He gingerly sat and collected his thoughts. "You said your grandfather was shot."

  "In the leg."

  "Was he captured?"

  "Not when I was there but ... probably. The soldiers were all over Piazza San Marco, and they'd broken into the palazzo." She braced herself. "Do you think they'll kill him?"

  "No! No, Chi--uh ... I don't think they'd kill him. Napoleon's too smart to turn him into a martyr. Most likely he'll demand that your grandfather step down and turn the republic over to France, just like he did before."

  He frowned.

  "What?"

  "You're the doge's only surviving relative?"

  "In the direct line, yes. There are other Dandolos in Venezia and abroad."

  "Ah." His frown deepened.

  "Tell me!"

  "Well ... how much do you know about the Sposalizio del Mare?"

  "The doge marries the Adriatic Sea on Ascension Day every year. It's how the republic maintains its pact with the ondine, so that they'll protect us from invaders." She paused. "Do you think--have the French broken the pact?"

  "They can't break it, but if the ritual isn't completed today ..."

  Chiara's eyes widened.

  "How much longer do we have?"

  "Until sunset."

  "Then we only have a few hours left to rescue him!"

  "Ch--it's not that easy. We also need the ring."

  "He didn't give it to me."

  "It was locked inside Maestro Lezze's medallion. That's why he wanted you to bring it back here."

  Chiara covered her mouth with one hand, shocked.

  "He should have told me," she whispered. "It fell into the lagoon--does that count?"

  "No. The ritual needs to take place outside the Lido Gate, and the ring needs to make contact with the water."

  "Can we get another ring?"

  "It's forged out of carmot, an alchemical metal made from the doge's blood."

  Despair swept over her.

  "Then I've failed." She buried her head in her hands, the tears she'd fought back all day spilling over at last. "I've doomed the republic."

  After a minute she felt a tentative touch on her shoulder.

  "Er--"

  She shook her head, not wanting to hear any words of sympathy. By sunset the French would be free to sail into the lagoon and Venezia would fall.

  "Chiara--there's still hope."

  She sniffed and looked up. Pietro was kneeling on the floor next to her chair, staring intently at her again.

  "What?" she whispered, wiping her eyes with her hands.

  "The ring works because it holds the doge's cifra di sangue, his blood code. As his direct descendant, your blood might be accepted by the ondine in his place. It should be similar enough."

  Chiara thrust out an arm. "Then take it!"

  "We don't have time to make a ring." He met her eyes. "You'll have to go to the site yourself and bleed into the sea."

  She swallowed, lowering her arm again.

  "Just ... cut myself and bleed?"

  "Yes. It takes two pints to make a ring, so ..."

  She winced. The laborers setting up the festival had been drinking pints of beer in the piazza all week.

  Two pints was a lot of blood.

  "And you have to say the ritual words, of course. I'm sorry. You understand the principle of sympathetic exchange?"

  "Earth to flesh, air to breath, fire to temperature, and water to blood."

  "Right. Nothing in the world is lost; only exchanged. Tizzo serves me in exchange for my body heat. And Brezza serves you in exchange for your breath."

  "But she never takes that much ..."

  "You never ask that much. But if we want the ondine to protect our waters, we need to make a sufficient sacrifice. Two pints and ..."

  "What?"

  "Anyone who falls into the lagoon during a storm." He shrugged apologetically. "It's a little more humane than human sacrifice, at least."

  She drew in a breath.

  "Will you take me to the right place? We don't need to be in the Bucintoro, do we?"

  "No." He gazed at her. "But it's going to be dangerous. Are you sure?"

  She met his eyes, trusting their steady attentiveness.

  "When do we leave?"

  IV: RUBEDO (THE ASSIMILATION)

  Taking the farmhouse's small rowboat, they worked their way around Murano to dock where some of the engineers' strange watercraft were tied. The three Great Hermetic Gates of Venezia were located at the ports of Lido, Malamocco, and Chiogga. Lido was the site of the Sposalizio ceremony, but to get there in
time they'd need something faster than a rowboat.

  "This is Maestro Lezze's boat," Pietro said, climbing into a large boat with side-mounted paddle wheels and a bright metal chimney. It was a beautiful craft, with brass-covered gunwales covered in alchemical symbols and all the wood polished to a shine. He reached down and threw a rope-and-board ladder over the side.

  "Does it run by steam?" Chiara asked, climbing up. She hesitated at the gunwale, and Pietro held out a hand to assist.

  With his help, she managed to get aboard with a reasonable amount of modesty.

  It took him a moment to remember to let go of her hand.

  "Um, yes," he said hastily, pulling up the ladder again. "It's a French design, based on Marquis Jouffroy d'Abbans' Pyroscaphe. We improved it, of course."

  "Is it safe?"

  "Well, it is a French design." Pietro shot her a grin. She gave him a skeptical look, secretly relieved that he was relaxing around her again. "No, it's safe as long as we don't spill any of this." He pulled out the small jars of amber liquid he'd taken from the farmhouse--liquid fire, in case the French chased them. "Better keep them far from Tizzo."

  She stowed them by the prow while Pietro and Tizzo began to stoke up the furnace. A small chest in the prow contained scrolls and pens, navigation instruments, and a spyglass. She pulled out the spyglass and looked toward Venezia. A faint cloud of dark smoke hung near the Arsenale. More boats were in the water. She guessed that the Veneziani were rallying.

  She turned the glass toward Murano and saw a few faces in the windows, watching them. She moved the glass and groaned as she saw a shape bobbing on the water as it rounded the tip of Fondamenta Serenella.

  "Pietro! Lucco has his boat back!"

  "Who? Oh, him. Is he coming this way?"

  "Maybe."

  She should have thrown the batela's oar into the water. That would have slowed him down.

  "We'll be gone before he gets here," the apprentice assured her.

  Chiara nodded, watching the hateful man. He eventually raised his head and looked straight at her. Then, slowly, he lifted a hand from the oar and pointed.

  She couldn't quite make out his expression, but she guessed it wasn't very friendly.