by Julia Knight
Dom was looking none too fresh himself, Vocho thought smugly. “If you recall, I was locked up here with your sister. And Bakar told me quite a lot about the place. I’ve got a good memory for those sorts of things. I’m pretty sure it’s this level, but it could be either one of these corridors.”
The stairs led out into a small antechamber which looked like it would usually hold a guard or two–a table, two chairs, an abandoned game of cards. Two corridors led from it, both looking as dark, dank and desperate as the other.
“Let’s take one each.” Vocho headed left. A small oil lamp hung from a hook. He took it and held it up to the grille of each cell. Behind him he could hear Dom calling Bakar’s name softly. The stench was indescribable. Vocho held his spare hand over his nose, though that did little to help. Neither did what he saw through the grilles. If he’d had the time, he would have had these people out–he’d always been good with locks so the lack of keys wouldn’t hinder him much.
A soft hand, pale and skeletal, touched his through the bars, but it wasn’t Bakar. “Please,” a voice said. “Please.” A face to match loomed up, scarred and bruised, and Vocho had to swallow hard. Bakar had put too many down here who didn’t deserve it, but there were plenty who did too. Still…
“Later,” he said. “I’ll come back.”
“Please, please.” The word followed him down the corridor like a ghost to haunt him. The last grille produced no flapping hand, no begging. He held the lamp up. Someone in there all the same, a small huddled figure against the far wall. It raised its head.
Bakar. At last. He found a hook for the lamp and set to work on the lock. Every time he glanced through the grille, Bakar would look at him, blank faced, slack jawed. God’s cogs. He’d seen Bakar many times, and the man had always seemed so alive and vital, full of self-assurance. Now he looked like a gleam-eyed wraith. Were they really going to try to save Reyes with him?
Finally the door opened. Vocho pushed it open and took a step inside. “Bakar—”
He got no further before something hit him on the back of the head, staggering him. He whipped round, eyes blurred, knees threatening to give way, and screamed at the face in front of him.
It was half in light, half in shadow, and all Vocho could see was a gaping hole where an eye used to be surrounded by mangled ropes of pink weeping flesh. The thing–he couldn’t think of it as a man–snarled and lunged at him before he could gather his wits enough to drag his sword from his scabbard. A hand found his throat and squeezed, banging his head on the stone floor as it did so. Another lamp appeared at the doorway to light the other half of the face, and suddenly Vocho could see who it was.
Petri? God’s cogs, what had Eneko done to Petri?
Whatever it was seemed to have sent him mad, and no wonder.
Dom yanked Petri off Vocho and held him, struggling viciously, as Vocho regained his feet. Even Dom couldn’t hold him for long, though it was clear that only one of Petri’s hands was working–the other was a replica of his face, with mangled, weeping flesh. The fingers, what was left of them, dangled uselessly.
Petri wriggled out of Dom’s grip and leaned, breathing heavily, against one wall.
“Say it,” he growled. Vocho couldn’t link the voice with the Petri he’d known, who was all smooth upper-class drawl, so self-assured. “Just say it, and get it over with.”
Vocho shook his head. He’d have cheerfully strangled Petri fucking Egimont a dozen times in the years he’d known him, but even he couldn’t bring himself to say what he might have once.
Half of Petri’s face broke into a smile. The other half writhed, making Vocho’s stomach turn. “You always were a coward. Come on then. Come through me.”
“Sabates is dead,” Dom said, and Petri twitched at that but said nothing. “Alicia murdered him, I’m pretty sure. Now she’s outside the gates, and Eneko…”
The single eye bored into Dom’s with an intensity that rattled even his imperturbability. “Eneko what?”
“Eneko is dead, I think, to all intents and purposes, though his body’s still moving. Bakar’s the only chance we have of keeping some order in the city.”
“He’s a lunatic!” Petri lurched forward but stopped when Vocho raised his sword. “Why do you think I was working with Sabates? Not for the fun of it. Because Bakar’s mad, and he’ll take down Reyes.”
“He’s mad because Sabates made him so,” Dom said quietly. “And we think we can unmake him.”
That seemed to hit Petri like a gut punch.
“Sabates made him mad?” Petri whispered, and then laughed, such a jagged desperate sound Vocho wanted to cover his ears. “All for nothing then, or for lies. All of it. Even this.” He waved his working hand at his face, where Vocho was surprised to see tears. “Take him then,” Petri said. “Take him. Do what you want. I won’t stand in your way. Save Reyes like the hero you always thought you were.”
He slid down the wall and sat slumped at its base. Vocho and Dom shared a look. Dom shrugged helplessly then went to Bakar and helped him up. Vocho kept a wary eye on Petri, but he just sat there.
Vocho wanted to say something, but what? They’d loathed each other and hadn’t been shy about letting the other know. Maybe Vocho was finally growing a conscience, but he couldn’t leave without saying… What? He turned at the door and searched for something–anything–to say, and came up blank. What do you say to a man who’s just lost half his face?
Petri saved him trying. “Do me one favour, Vocho.”
“If I can. For Kass’s sake if nothing else.”
“Tell her I’m dead. I… She… I can’t. Tell her that. It’ll be kinder on all of us. It’s not a lie in any case. Petri Egimont is dead.”
Half an hour later Vocho was half dragging, half carrying the prelate of Reyes across town, while Dom was trying to find a herbalist or healer who might be able to help. Sugar, that was the only clue they had, mixed with goatsfoot trefoil, if they could find it. And where was the one place almost guaranteed to have some sugar? A brewery, at least one too cheap to use proper malted grain, so that’s where he was going. Dom would meet him. With any luck Vocho could have a free sample while they tried to get Bakar back to something approaching sanity, because, god’s cogs, he really felt like he needed a drink at the moment.
Bakar muttered something as they passed the shattered remains of the Clockwork God, minus its head.
“What?”
“Petri–was that Petri in the cell with me? What happened to him?”
The prelate seemed almost lucid and attempted a few steps on his own, so Vocho let him because lumping a fully grown man around was doing his back absolutely no favours at all.
“Eneko happened. That’s all I know.”
Bakar frowned and just for a second seemed normal. “Eneko, yes. I recall… something about Eneko. Last night? Night before? It’s hard to recall. My clock… The bones talk to me, you know.”
Vocho worked hard to keep his sarcasm in check. “Do they? That’s nice.”
“They tell me things, those bones. Petri… Petri betrayed me? No, that can’t be right. Only Eneko said, the bones said… Everyone betrays me. All of them!”
“How about you just try not to think, and we’ll get where we’re going, OK?”
Bakar subsided into a silence that Vocho might have termed thoughtful if there was any chance there were any coherent thoughts available. Luckily the streets were empty, though Vocho noted a few people peering round doors as they approached and muttering once they’d passed. He wasn’t sorry when the facade of his chosen brewery loomed up ahead. Banging on the door had no effect–everyone was probably hiding under their beds awaiting the coming invasion–so he took the liberty of propping Bakar against a wall and picking the lock.
Inside it smelt malty and delicious, but Vocho did his best to ignore that. Leaving the door open for Dom, he dragged Bakar into the brewing room and plonked him on a seat while he had a look around.
A small doorway at t
he back led him to where he needed to go–a series of great bins where all the ingredients were kept. All of them were full–grains, hops, a smaller one for dried yeast, but one was virtually empty. The sugar one, naturally. Vocho recalled that a shortage of sugar had been one of the grievances in Reyes not all that far back, and the war with their one supplier, Ikaras, wouldn’t have improved matters.
There were a few cupfuls, not much use to the brewer but maybe enough for his purposes. He found a bowl, got as much into it as he could and went back to Bakar.
The prelate was sitting bolt upright on the seat and looking around him with interest.
Clockwork God, please do your best with your greatest servant. Not me, obviously. Him. A tall order, I know, but otherwise you’re as dead as we are.
“They destroyed the Clockwork God, the one outside the guild,” Bakar said when Vocho came back. “And Eneko put me in the Shrive. I think.”
“Oh, he definitely did.” Vocho considered the best way to get as much sugar into the man as possible, found water and a jug and added a cupful. “Here, drink this.”
Bakar peered into it. “What is it? You try some first. People have been trying to kill me, you see. The bones told me. Pays to be careful. Oh yes, they’re all out to kill me.”
“It’s sugar, look.” Vocho took a swig and almost gagged at the sweetness. Any time now would be good, if it pleases your Clockiness. “Now get it down you.”
Bakar sniffed, pulled a face and did as he was told.
“Keep going.”
“How much?”
“Until you seem sane. Could be quite a lot because I’ve known almond groves with less nuts.”
Bakar was still drinking, between weak protests that he was going to be sick, when Dom turned up.
“Well?” Vocho asked because Bakar was still paranoid to his eyeballs.
“Not a lot of luck. I found a herbalist and described the poison. She thinks she knows what it is, but apart from what we’re already doing or finding goatsfoot trefoil, which she hasn’t got, we’re out of luck. How is he?”
“See for yourself.”
Bakar had muttered under his breath about bones, which was a good sign. He still thought his clocks talked to him, which was less good.
Dom shook his head. “She said it can take days to wear off, if we can’t do something.”
“In the meantime he’s not going to be running anything. Let alone look like a sensible figurehead. One mention of talking clocks, and there’ll be bloody chaos. What about the councillors?”
“What about them?”
“Could we get one of them to…”
Dom laughed bitterly. “No, not really. You pick one, the others will want him dead on the instant. Half of them have tried employing me to kill the other half. Bakar only barely managed to keep them from each other’s throats by playing one against the other and never showing any favouritism. Of course, since he went very visibly insane, they’ve been jockeying for position anyway. Eneko has most of them in his pocket, or did. The rest are petrified of him. Which way they jump is going to prove very interesting when they find out what he is, isn’t it?”
“This whole bloody day is going to be far more interesting than I care to imagine. Bakar can walk a bit better now anyway. Let’s find Kass and see what she’s got.”
And hope his Clockiness has found us a miracle.
“You’ve got what?” Vocho gaped at Kass.
“About two dozen replicas of the Clockwork God, fully operational and able to walk. And fight. They’re inside.”
She seemed to be just about holding it together, but his sister could never keep her feelings inside for long, and they were there for anyone to see. Violence simmering under her too-still face, a hitch in her calm voice, a palpable need to use the sword and dagger that jigged in her hands. Vocho shared a glance with Dom and got a tiny shake of the head in return, even though, this one time, lying to her–even by just not telling her that she was wrong about Petri being dead–felt wrong. Even the possibility of Petri being out of Vocho’s life for good couldn’t shake that feeling, but for now he chewed on the inside of his cheek and kept his mouth shut about him, about what was left of his face and what he was now. Petri had asked, and Vocho understood why and had given his word as a guildsman. That had never stopped him before, but he was starting to see things a bit differently.
“Looks like the god answered my prayers then,” he said instead. “What are we going to do with them?”
A hard-faced man came up and looked Vocho up and down with a tiny frown that cleared when he saw Dom. “God’s cogs, if it isn’t Jokin. I remember you. Couldn’t forget the way you fight. Heard you got thrown out or somesuch but didn’t believe that bullshit Eneko came out with about it. Come on. I’ll show you what we’ve got planned.” He peered behind Vocho. “Is that Bakar?”
The prelate stood, juddering from the effects of all the sugar they’d managed to get into him. His eyes jumped about in their sockets, and his hands trembled so hard they blurred, but he’d stopped telling them how his clocks talked to him, so Vocho was taking that as an improvement.
The older man turned away, clearly expecting them to follow. Vocho cocked an eyebrow at Kass.
“Esmuss. Used to run the border guards until Eneko brought him back for what he says were trumped-up reasons, leaving someone greener than grass to lose half the guards. Esmuss and Eneko don’t get on.”
Dom muttered something under his breath about understatements, and they followed Esmuss into his office. The guildsman pointed to the map.
“Right, here’s the city as it stands now. The plan, as I understand it, was to lure the Ikarans into that first square behind the tower traps, shut the gates behind them and then unleash the gods on them while they were pinned down. That’s not going to work now because they’re already that far in and working their way further. And I don’t know what he was going to do about the magicians.”
“One less now,” Dom said. “Alicia killed Sabates.”
“Did she? Well that helps, perhaps. I’m sure there’ll be others, not as strong perhaps but still tricky.”
“Got to get them quick, take them unawares.” They all turned to look at Bakar. He’d stopped juddering and his eyes looked clear enough, though there was still a little jump to them, a rhythmic twitch to his hands. “That’s how we managed last time. Distract them and then get in quick before they know what you’re about. They die just as easily from a shot to the head as anyone else.”
Vocho sneaked a look at Dom, whose face had suddenly become as grim and set as Kacha’s, and wondered what it was like to have people discussing how best to murder your wife. Or to have your wife trying to destroy the city you were in, and probably you with it.
“I know what will stop her,” Dom said quietly. “I know what she wants. Eneko. Information only Eneko has. Give her that—”
“She’ll have to beat me to him,” Kass said in a tone of voice that suggested the sentence could have easily ended with “because I want to slice his face off.”
“That won’t stop the Ikarans, will it?” Esmuss poked at the cup he was using to mark the position of the Ikaran king.
“Without magic Reyes can beat that army,” Bakar said, and he was sounding more and more sane. “We’ve weapons stockpiled against just such a thing, traps galore, and the Reyen people will fight for their city. I know they will. They did before. I will fight for my city too.”
Esmuss glanced at him. “Not to put too fine a point on it, you’ve been a raving lunatic for quite some time now. The city’s fed up. Worse–was on the point of revolt. They welcomed Eneko with open arms, that’s how bad it was. They want someone to lead them but someone they can trust. Then, yes, then perhaps we’d have a chance. If we take out the magician.”
Bakar stared out over the factory floor, and when he smiled he had the look of an angel. “What if their spiritual leader gave them a miracle, straight from their god?”
Kass watched a
s the sun set over a bruised and bloody Reyes. The streets by the gate were full of Ikarans, who seemed to be running on sheer willpower and whatever spell Alicia had cast on them. Bodies piled up against the walls of houses, blood soaking the stone and gurgling along gutters and into drains. And yet more Ikarans came, mad on magic, while Reyens cowered in their houses from the periodic showers of blood or hurried to the docks. More than one family had come to grief on a makeshift raft in the harbour. The city was rudderless, with as yet no one to take the place of Eneko. Instead of a coherent defence, little bands did their best to keep their streets their own, with varying success. At least the two magicians were no longer battling it out. The plain had descended into silence.
Kass, Vocho and Dom lurked on the roof of a house that overlooked the wall and peered out into dusk.
“Are we sure about this?” Vocho asked.
“Yes.” Kass checked her blades again, for something to do with her hands, with her brain.
Dom nodded grimly in the gathering dark, and Kass put a hand on his arm, as much for herself as for him.
A blast of trumpets split the quiet, a ragged fanfare blown by clockers more used to spanners and hammers than musical instruments. Starting in Soot Town, the trumpets moved along the main avenue to where the dented, decapitated but still upright–just–Clockwork God stood on his plinth, gathering a few curious souls as they went, and then headed towards the main gate. Kass shut her eyes and it seemed to her she could hear the city come alive, hear every door opening as what followed the ragged trumpeters passed. Hear the gasps, feel the hope.
Bakar, resplendent in some white robes they had cobbled together, strode tall and proud and above all reasonably sane at the head of two dozen gods marching in time. His voice, almost back to its deep, compelling best, echoed along the streets.
“Your god has saved you, has sent these warriors in his image. He will not allow the heathen Ikarans to take this city, not while Reyens defend it! Take comfort in the truth of him, take comfort in knowing he has given me back to myself after a long trial to prepare me, sent me back to lead you out of this shadow. The clockwork is clear, for those who can read it. While you stand with your god, he will not abandon you, and Reyes will not fall!”
