by Jeff Grubb
Urza looked down. “I don’t know where he is,” he said softly, then added, “I wish he’d come back.”
Ahmahl nodded. “I wish he would as well.” He put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. Urza shuddered for a moment, unused to the touch, and shied away. The digger dropped his arm and left the young man at the cairn.
A message about the disaster was sent to Penregon by ornithopter, and the craft returned with Loran and—to Ahmahl’s surprise—Richlau. The young noblewoman was to take stock of Tocasia’s works and writing, while the older nobleman was to oversee the striking of the camp. A caravan was already being sent out from Penregon by worried parents, fearful that savage desert riders were about to swoop down and slay their now-unprotected children.
Urza was gone by the time the evacuation caravan arrived. He had spent two days with Loran summarizing Tocasia’s notes, then left with another, smaller caravan heading south. The young man told Loran he had no desire to return to Penregon. To Ahmahl he made clear he had no desire to remain and watch his beloved camp abandoned.
Of Mishra there was no sign, though Richlau ordered ornithopter patrols to try to find him from the air. If he ever returned to the camp none saw him, or admitted to seeing him.
Ahmahl was the last to see Urza off. None of the other Fallaji wanted to be near him, and as there was no real work to do now, the diggers themselves were drifting off in twos and threes. The camp felt like a town of ghosts: still occupied but missing its own secret heart. That heart had died with Tocasia.
Ahmahl watched from beside Tocasia’s cairn as the caravan, made up of “friendly” Fallaji, wound its way out of the camp. Urza was on foot, using one of his mentor’s staves as a hiking staff. That and a few drained and cracked power stones were the only things he took from the camp. Those things and his knowledge, thought the Fallaji digger.
Urza turned, looking up at where Ahmahl stood. No, corrected the old man. He was looking at where Tocasia lay. Ahmahl was too far away to see the young man’s face clearly, but he saw Urza’s shoulders, dejected and defeated.
Ahmahl thought he understood. The young man had lost his mentor, his home, and his brother, all because of the actions of a single night.
What Ahmahl did not understand—and what would take years for him to understand—was which of the three losses was the hardest for the young scholar to bear.
Kayla bin-Kroog, daughter of the warlord of the city of Kroog, princess of the nation of Yotia, and the most beautiful woman east of the mighty Mardun River, was shopping when she met the strange Argivian.
She had sampled the new shipment of plums from the Yotian coastal provinces and been shown the sheerest and most colorful of fabrics from Zegon. She had been offered the freshest of spices from far-off Almaaz and the largest of the great-clawed river prawns of the Upper Mardun. A group of Sardian dwarves offered to sell her golden earrings, which they swore once belonged to their greatest empress. A nomad woman dressed in scarves offered to predict the princess’s fortune from the lines on her palms. And all of this was done with great ceremony and respect, which Kayla found extremely pleasing. There were, after all, advantages to being a princess.
She examined handfuls of the lustrous ice-stones of Sarinth, gems crystal clear, and hard as steel. She ran her fingers over the thick weaves of Fallaji rugs imported from Tomakul. A minstrel serenaded her with verses that he swore he made up on the spot to honor her. A group of street jesters built a human pyramid on her behalf. Storekeepers left their stores with samples of food, linen, or crafts they wanted to show to the most important woman in the city of Kroog.
But Kayla bin-Kroog had a purpose to her journey through the merchants’ quarter. This was no whimsical spree (though if it was, none would dare to question it—except perhaps her father, who was a bit of a grump about such things). She held that purpose in a small clasp purse clutched close to her breast. She had not told her father the reason for her journey; nor had she informed the guards assigned to protect her person nor even the redoubtable matron who served as her official chaperone on such larks. But she had a purpose, and that goal brought a spring to her step.
At each stop during her itinerary she asked about the other shops nearby. There were taverns, clothing shops, hat makers, gem crafters, bead stringers, and all manner of shops, large and small. But only when someone mentioned a clockmaker did her dark brown eyes light up. That would be her next stop, she informed the matron, who in turn told the guards, who in turn asked for directions and cleared a path through the rabble for her royal highness’s visit.
The clockmaker’s shop was a small one, even by the crowded standards of the crowded merchant district of Kroog. It was a narrow, two-story building tucked between a blacksmith’s forge and a jeweler. The first floor was made smaller still by a low counter that ran most of the way across the width of the room, separating the clockmaker’s workshop from the display and customers.
The guards remained outside, but only an act of the gods would keep the matron from her place, glued securely to the princess’s side. Kayla’s nose wrinkled as she entered the shop—it smelled of wood and oil and other things she could not put a name to and would rather not try.
There was noise. One clock ticking was an amusing distraction. Ten was an irritation, and here there were no fewer than twenty mounted along the right and left walls. Great pendulums swung back and forth in smooth rhythms, while other timepieces chimed softly to indicate the passage of each fleeting instant. It was both charming and overwhelming.
The clockmaker was typical of his breed: well fed, as her father would say, turning the reference from one concerning another’s health to an endorsement of his own farming policies. Actually this fellow was a bit more than well fed, verging on stout. He could give the matron a run for her money in the heft department, and Kayla wondered for a moment if all three of them could stand to be in the same building.
In addition to being stout, the clockmaker was balding, with gray hair showing at the temples. He wore a set of Argivian spectacles common to those crafts requiring detailed work. He was dressed in an oil-spattered shirt covered only partially by a heavy leather vest. The vest either belonged to a younger relation, or had been purchased when the clockmaker was thinner.
“Your Most Esteemed Highness,” burbled the clockmaker. Grovelling was a typical greeting for the princess in Kroog. Entire workshops and stores came to a screeching halt at her entrance, as the staffs bowed, scraped, and fawned.
The clockmaker twittered with the best of them. “I cannot believe how fortunate we are to have your illustrious presence gracing my humble shop,” he murmured in rapid cadence. “I am honored, truly honored.”
“You make clocks,” she said sweetly, and the clockmaker’s eyes lit up as if she had just announced the arrival of the gods.
“Yes, yes,” he said emphatically. “This is the House of Rusko, home of the Clocks of Rusko, and we bid you welcome. Is our most Radiant Majesty interested in a time-keeping mechanism?”
“No,” said Kayla shortly. Indeed, she could imagine few things more irritating than clocks. They were necessary, she realized, for those poor, sad people who had to be at a certain place at a certain time, but that did not apply to her. Events began when she arrived, and everyone else was ready for her.
She set down the clasp bag on the counter and opened it. “I have an item here in need of repair. It belonged to my mother, but it has not worked in years.”
She produced a small silver box from her bag. It was so brightly polished that it seemed to suck sunlight from outside the store in order to add to its luster. Kayla caught sight of her own reflection in the lid—clear eyes of deepest brown; lustrous, raven-dark hair; soft lips that just verged on pouting. She liked to think that everyone would make a fuss over her even if she were not the daughter of the most powerful man in Yotia.
She handed it to the clockmaker, who turned it over in his hands as if it was a live mouse. Carefully he placed a thumb against t
he latch, and the top sprang open soundlessly. “Ah!” he said, then repeated for emphasis, “Ah!”
Kayla was suddenly sure that the clockmaker had never seen such a device in all his days. “It is supposed to play music when it is opened,” she said.
“Yes!” said the clockmaker quickly. “Yes, of course it does!” He closed the box and turned it over in his hands a few times. Then he touched his fingers to his lips, his brow pursed, and set it down on the counter. He looked up at Kayla and smiled, a kind of greasy leer. “Let me call my assistant for this one. Young eyes and deft hands and all that.” Without waiting for her response, he turned and shouted toward the back of the shop, “Assistant! Counter!”
Kayla looked in the direction of the shout and saw the clockmaker was addressing a slender, blond man who had been working at a bench toward the back. She had not noticed him because he had not risen and come forward when she entered. That fact struck her as odd. Everyone rose and came forward when she entered.
The young man was tall but not too tall, lean but not too lean, and handsome but not in an obvious way. His hair was the color of white gold, pulled into a simple ponytail. He ambled toward the front counter, raised an eyebrow, and said, “How can I help, Good-lady?”
Upon hearing his accent Kayla was doubly reassured. The clipped tone of his words indicated he was an Argivian, and as such unlearned in how to treat true royalty. The king was weak in Argive, and she had heard the nobles did as they pleased. Second, and more important, she thought, he was an Argivian, and young Argivians knew how to handle artifacts and old mechanisms.
The clockmaker presented the silver box. “Her majesty has an item in need of repairs,” he said, stressing the introduction enough so there would be no question as to station with the stranger. “It’s a music box.”
The Argivian picked up the box and turned it over in his hands a few times. To Kayla’s eyes he was much more sure of himself than the clockmaker had been. “And the problem is?” he asked.
“It doesn’t work,” hissed the clockmaker. “It’s supposed to play music.”
“Oh,” said the stranger calmly. “Well, let’s see what the problem is.” He flipped the box over and pressed both thumbs against the base. The box gave a sharp, distinct snap.
Kayla bin-Kroog jumped at the sound, and the clockmaker looked as if he was going to faint dead away. Had the apprentice just destroyed a priceless heirloom? Kayla wondered. Then she saw that in reality all the young man had done was slip a panel from the box’s base. Within the case was a maze of gears and metal. It did not seem to belong inside a container so delicate and precious.
“Here’s the problem,” said the Argivian. His quick fingers were delicately probing and poking the apparatus. “The mainspring is knocked out of its socket. Hold on.” He left the box on the counter and retreated to his own bench, returning with a thin tool with a crooked tip. “This should do it it,” he murmured. There was a soft click, and the stranger smiled. “There you go.” He slipped the bottom panel into place with another loud snap and handed it back to the princess. Their fingers brushed as he did so.
Kayla bin-Kroog took the box and opened it. Nothing happened.
The matron scowled deeply. Kayla regarded the stranger coldly and lifted an immaculate eyebrow. The clockmaker suddenly looked apoplectic. “If you’ve broken the princess’s music box —”
“Well, you have to wind it,” said the Argivian, and Kayla was sure there was a hint of smugness in his voice. “You have the key, don’t you?”
“Key?” said Kayla.
“Let me see,” said the Argivian, holding his hand out. The princess handed the box back, their fingers touching again. The young stranger took the music box back behind the counter and rummaged through several drawers. Finally he lifted his head and returned to the front of the shop.
“Key,” he said. “Found one that fit the winding peg.” He held up a thick, inelegant key made of some dull, common metal, rusted along one side. He inserted the key, gave it a few quick turns, pulled it out, and then handed the box back to the princess. “Try it now.”
Kayla opened the box, and a soft, tinny music filled the shop. For a moment she forgot the incessant ticking that surrounded them. It sounded like small pixies playing crystalline bells. There seemed to be one tune, and a second, softer one playing underneath the first.
She held the box to her ear and said, “I hear two songs.”
The Argivian nodded. “It’s a contra tempo. Two distinct melodies in different times weave in and out. I remember having a music box like that as a child, though, of course, one not so elegant and well crafted.”
Kayla smiled, taking the compliment as a reflection on her. She closed the box, and the music stopped.
“Thank you,” she said.
The Argivian held out the thick key. “Take this with you to wind it.”
The clockmaker lashed out an arm with a speed that belied his girth, then held the key aloft, presenting it formally to the princess. “The music box of Kroog with the key of Rusko!” he said, laying the key in Kayla’s dainty hand.
The princess looked at the Argivian. “You are Rusko?”
The Argivian smirked, and it was definite smirk. “He is Rusko. I am Urza. And you’ll be able to have a better-looking key made at any jeweler’s.”
“Thank you, Goodsir Urza,” she said, with a gracious smile aimed directly at the young man. That smile had melted courtiers and dashing young captains.
The Argivian named Urza smiled back, apparently unmoved, and said, “Be sure not to overwind it. That’s probably what knocked the spring out in the first place. Just turn the key until you get some resistance.” He spoke to the matron, whom he apparently assumed would take care of such tasks as music box winding.
Kayla smiled again but did not offer her hand. She glided out of the shop, her matron in tow. The fat woman was scowling, as if she had not understood what had just happened.
Out on the street, the matron said to Kayla, “The jeweler, then, milady?”
Kayla put the silver box back into her clutch purse, but held on to the thick, slightly rusted key. “Eventually,” she said thoughtfully, “but not today. I’ve had enough shopping for one excursion.”
With that the entire procession—guards, matron, princess, hangers-on, and well-wishers—steered their way back to the imperial quarter and daddy’s palace.
* * *
—
Inside the clockmaker’s shop, Rusko remained glued to the window until the last of the princess’s procession had disappeared and the street returned to a semblance of normalcy.
“The princess!” he said half to himself, rubbing his hands together. His voice had returned to normal, “The princess of Kroog was here! In my shop!”
“With an overwound music box.” Urza shook his head. “Don’t they have a flunky in charge of such things?”
“Mind your tongue, lad,” said Rusko sharply. “When news gets out that she was in my shop, admiring my clocks, we’ll have more business than we know what to do with.”
“I didn’t notice her admiring any clocks,” said Urza.
“That’s because you weren’t paying attention!” said Rusko with a chuckle. “Which is a tragedy for two reasons. One, she is royalty, and you should always pay attention to royalty; they can hurt you if you don’t. And two, even if she wasn’t royalty, she’s incredibly beautiful.”
“I suppose. I hadn’t noticed,” said Urza, retiring to his workbench.
“Not noticed?” spat Rusko. A wide smile crossed his face. “You must have ice water coursing through your veins, lad. That or such beauties are ten for a copper in Penregon.”
Urza did not reply, and Rusko shook his head. The young man was a hard worker, but seemed to Rusko that he had no interests beyond his own bench.
Three months earlier, the youth had appeared seeking employment. He had arrived on some Fallaji caravan out of the desert, but his accent marked him as an Argivian, and probabl
y well born as well. Rusko guessed he was some errant scion of a noble family. Probably got in trouble with his elders for using the wrong soup spoon or something, the clockmaker thought.
Rusko had heard the youth had approached the temple schools first, seeking employment as a scholar. Of course, his lack of religious training counted against him. He then sought employment among the guilds. His Argivian heritage told against him there, too, for most of the guilds took native Yotians first. Rusko was a minor member of the clockmakers and jewelers guild (but poised to expand, he always reminded others) and was in need of an extra hand. And the Argivian would work for little more than room and board.
Of course, Rusko appreciated the dedicated nature of his new assistant. But he worried that as an Argivian Urza was missing the finer things in life. A dour and pragmatic people the Argivians were, in Rusko’s opinion, and his new assistant confirmed that view.
“I think she took an interest in you,” he said after a moment. “I noticed the way she looked at you when I presented her the key.”
“The Key of Rusko,” said Urza, looking up from his work. “Why did you make such a fuss when you gave her that key?”
“Ah,” said the clockmaker with a fatherly smile. “Let me expand your education, young man. Rule number one: always sign your work. I don’t just sell clocks, I sell the Clocks of Rusko!” He waved at the assorted timepieces lining the walls. “Always attach your name to your work. That way others know what you did, and your fame spreads as a result. A hundred years from now, people will remember Rusko and his clocks.”
“Only if they are good clocks,” returned Urza.
“Aye, and ours are the finest!” Rusko beamed. “How do they know? Because we tell them so! Always show what you can do. And always sign your work!”
