The dvergar set up a cosy camp for us, and even brought hasped pine planks and tents for dry sleeping, pots for cooking. Beleth stayed with me. Gynth returned, bearing an elk over his great shoulders. He slung the creature next to the fire and squatted on his hams, hands dangling loose in front of him. Even squatting, he was as tall as a man. Gynth remained still for the most part, but his gaze took in everything.
The rhythms of camp took me. Building the fire, inventorying food and spice. Sharpening my knives. Dvergar women came in procession, bringing vegetables, casks of ale, bundles of herbs. Blankets and candles. A tin of rendered grease for cooking. Old pans and cast iron skillets.
Each woman stared at Gynth for long moments before turning away. Some had expressions of wonder. Some of hatred. The old matves greeted Gynth with a bow and a murmured, ‘Vrenthkin, aldven,’ which roughly means, ‘You’ve returned, once more,’ but functioned as an old greeting. A greeting one would give an acquaintance, but not one of their own family.
‘What’re they saying?’ Fisk asked, as he slung his satchels into the tent.
‘They give the old greeting,’ I said, sucking on my teeth. ‘An old greeting to someone you might bargain or trade with.’
‘You said they used to trade,’ Fisk said. ‘And now this brute here. You’ve tamed him.’
‘There’s no taming vaettir, as there’s no taming men, pard. We all follow our own natures,’ I said.
‘Why are their natures all so sour, then?’ Fisk said.
I sighed. He could tamp it down, he could let reason prevail, but he could never put aside his hatred of the vaettir. How could he? It would be an abrogation of his love for his daughter, lost now so many years. It was a furrow he ploughed around himself and could never cross.
But I said, ‘Remember Livia’s letters? That Fantasma boy? Their natures vary, it seems. Fickle like mankind. All of it. Like dvergar.’
‘Far as I’ve seen, all of their natures are bloodthirsty,’ he said, frowning, looking at Gynth. ‘Fantasma and this one aren’t any different.’
‘And ours are not?’ I said, withdrawing a longknife and running it over a whetstone in preparation for butchering the elk. I didn’t bother to look at Fisk; I focused on the task at hand. ‘“There is no creature on earth or in heaven that is not fearful of man”.’
‘Don’t quote Our Heavenly War to me, Shoe,’ Fisk said. ‘I’m not in the mood for literary discussion.’
It was warm enough, so I took off my jacket and rolled up my shirtsleeves to the bicep. From Bess’ satchel I took my stained leather apron – much like Neruda’s – and put it on. I set to butchering the elk while Gynth watched me. When Beleth stirred, moving the blood in his body, trying to ease the pain of his bindings, Gynth would shift and flex his long clawed fingers, and turn his gaze upon the engineer. Beleth would still. As the afternoon wore on, denizens of Breadbasket crossed the furrow – now a small, short stone and timber wall due to the industriousness of dvergar – to come and gaze upon the vaettir.
‘He’s big,’ Catch Hands said, staring at Gynth. ‘It’s like he could hold a child in his hands.’
Fisk, unrolling his sleeping bag, said, ‘Why don’t you find your friends before he decides you look tasty and stop bothering us with your idiotic observations?’
Catch Hands bristled and then, before you knew it, Fisk’s hand held a pistol. ‘There’d be nothing I’d rather do than ventilate you,’ Fisk said, and then said no more.
Catch Hands made patting gestures, palms out. ‘What’s your friend’s problem?’ he said to me in dvergar.
‘Vaettir make him crotchety,’ I replied, knife working on the elk. I’d run a sturdy branch through the natural grommet of bone and ankle tendon and, with some help, had hoisted the great beast up on high, rope over tree branch. I flayed away the skin carefully, preparing to open the body cavity. Catch Hands shrugged and turned away, walking back to the village. I thought he’d gone for good but he returned with a wooden trough and plopped it down beneath the elk to catch the viscera.
‘I’ll feed the dogs,’ he said, simply.
Gynth blinked. I opened the body cavity and pulled the hot mess down into the trough. The heart – melon sized – I cut away, arms covered in blood. I tossed it to Gynth. He snatched it out of the air with a clawed hand and said, ‘That’s good,’ in dvergar. He began to eat it like it was an apple.
The onlooking dwarves murmured in surprise. Gynth turned his great head (and blood-streaked mouth) to look at them. ‘What?’ he said. ‘It’s good.’
The watching dwarves scattered.
That night, after we’d eaten our fill and I’d spiced and set out the elk meat to dry in the woodsmoke, Fisk came and sat near me by the fire.
‘I’m lighting out before dawn. Watch Beleth,’ he said. ‘I took his hand to keep his mischief to a minimum, but by morning, before it, I’ll wager, Winfried will be here, sniffing around. She wants for his blood.’
‘Understood,’ I said. ‘I will be on my guard.’
‘With the deal I’ve struck with Neruda, he’ll not want the engineer, though that old harridan Praeverta won’t want us to take him out of this valley. She worked and fought us too hard to get him here.’ He fell silent and lit another cigarette, and stared into the fire. I could feel the wheels turning, in there. ‘Beleth is a problem,’ he said. ‘There’d be nothing more I’d like than to kill him. But I need him in front of one of Cornelius’ or Tamberlaine’s agents if I can. Satisfy the Emperor we’ve fulfilled his mission, maybe—’
‘He’ll not keep Livia from you. I hear you,’ I said. ‘I will keep him close.’
‘Yes, that’s it. For the most part,’ Fisk said. ‘But there’s more. That trick he does. Casting himself into others. Into their bodies. Infests stretchers with demons. Wears them like a lady’s frock. Sapientia and Samantha need to take him in hand, find out what they can. We’re fully at war now, no half-measures.’
‘Never pegged you for a patriot,’ I said. It was a calculated barb. Fisk sometimes needed a few prods for him to come to what was really bothering him.
‘I’ve seen too many children killed,’ Fisk said. ‘My own. Others. Before coming here, west, I was a mercenary in Ægypt, and in the Pelonesian. Too many places in the world don’t care for innocence. And now that son of a bitch is turning the innocent babes into the unimaginable. Titanic weapons.’
I looked at my partner. His expression was pained. So many times had he barked orders, said gruff things, even hurtful things to those he cared not for, those he had no respect for. Those he hated. He was a man used to hate. Hate that denied the common thread of humanity. He’d killed men, and women. But, I think, none that did not mean him harm. And there, in the firelight, was Gynth, eyes glimmering. Fisk tolerated him, one of a race he’d sworn a thousand times he’d not rest until he saw the last of mouldering in the earth. So, there’s a movement in the rocks and trees. The great plates of land shift. Mountain ranges are cast up like furrows and plateaus become seas. Fisk changes.
‘I hear you, friend,’ I said. ‘If he’s given this terrible knowledge to the Medierans—’
‘He has. You saw how fast Neruda wanted Hellfire. The Medierans would be no different,’ Fisk said, and spat out a bit of tabac that had lodged in his teeth. ‘They would make no bargain with Beleth without that.’
A log in the fire popped. Fisk finished his smoke. I adjusted the elk meat over the fire.
‘I’ll be gone in the morning, partner,’ he said. ‘Remember.’ He looked meaningfully at Beleth once more and then disappeared into the tent the folks of Breadbasket had set up for him.
The night grew quiet. Gynth rose, indicated he was going to wander.
‘You ever sleep?’ I asked in dvergar.
‘Sleep? I have,’ he nodded his great head. ‘In sleep I walk in dreams. But it will be bundles of years before I sleep again.’
‘What do you dream of?’ I asked.
‘Fire. And being buried in the earth.
And blood,’ Gynth said, pausing at the edge of the fire’s radiance.
‘None of that seems too pleasant,’ I said.
Gynth shrugged and disappeared.
SIXTEEN
Thimadæl Gyre Is Greedy And Wants For Blood
RUME, THE IMMORTAL City, was no more.
We turned the Typhon back, once we saw the eerie light distressing the night sky, steaming into the Ostian bay, Carnelia on the remaining swivel gun, Tenebrae at the gunman’s roost, broaching the great wave that came at us from shore, to witness the conflagration. There were flames, towering, lighting the underside of the clouds in streaked, garish light. As we approached the wharf, crowds of people screamed and pleaded from the shore. Men, some women, bearing children. Behind them, all of Latinum was afire, and a pillar of it – a shifting monument of flame that moved like some great old one, a titan, an old god – walked the earth. Black smoke poured off it and it had no body in the shape of man, it was wholly foreign, tendrils of fire like arms, branches of flame like legs, or children. And it grew, making a tremendous sound, a high-pitched keen matched with a bass rumble that fell away and skittered off into registers that my ears ceased to perceive yet caused my body to become as some great antenna. The air shivered and pulsed with percussion and heat, wavered with whatever strange and dark energy emanated from the conflagration. It was alive. It was awake. It bore a great malice in its heat and smote everything around it.
‘My gods,’ said Ysmay, coming on deck now that the engines had begun to idle. His face was painted orange with firelight. ‘The power here. Unimaginable.’ He turned away. ‘I can’t even countenance the precium,’ he said.
‘The precium?’ I asked, still watching the sentient pillar of fire.
‘The price. Blood. Or more,’ he said.
Of course. A child. Children. Infants. Ia help us all.
‘There’ll be no docking. Whatever daemon they called from Hell, it has remarkable integrity and won’t dissipate for a long while. And if it takes notice of us …’
‘I think it might be wise if you go back below decks, Mister Ysmay,’ I said. ‘And start the engines. We’ll be leaving now.’
Ysmay scurried below, and for once I didn’t have to worry about his motivation or fidelity. The engines thrummed and shivered and we put distance between ourselves and the wreckage of Rume.
I did not know what this terrible end signified, other than terrible loss.
My father was dead. People I’d loved, people I’d known all my life. All gone. The Latinum hills were scorched and wasted.
I turned my eyes north toward the dark. And west, toward Occidentalia.
It was a risk, but we took the Typhon into open seas. The Ruman naval fleet was in disarray – the Ostian wharf burned and those ships without daemons in their bellies, their sails caught fire like so much kindling, funerary candles on the face of the bay. The smell of burning pitch and wood and flesh hung with the smoke, low, like a noxious fog kissing the water’s surface. We had no idea if we were still flagged as a renegade ship and no way to find out – in the captain’s quarters we found a Quotidian, but it was not paired to any living person who could use it and Ysmay said it could not be reconfigured without both ‘receivers’ present. There was an overwhelming moment when I realised we might be blamed for the destruction of Rume. Our ruse at Rezzo, using Fiscelion as evidence of a plot against the state, might make us seem the monsters that did this should the men there have had any communication with Tamberlaine or his subordinates between us boarding the Typhon and the destruction of the immortal city.
After three days at full steam, we brought the Typhon to port at Narbonne. Carnelia and I had scoured wardrobes and found enough clothing in the lascars’ berths that we were both accoutred as lascars – from all appearances, very young ones, of fair complexion and slim builds – and we tucked our hair underneath caps while Tenebrae wore the captain’s uniform, cutting a dashing figure. We all wore Hellfire pistols.
Looking at our reflections in the mirror of the captain’s berth, Carnelia announced, ‘I would kiss me.’ She tugged on the naval coat. Neither of us had prominent breasts, though mine were definitely larger, due to Fiscelion’s feeding. But with the jackets, our sex was not immediately evident. ‘I am a very fetching lad,’ Carnelia said. Then she tugged at the crotch of the trousers. ‘These britches are Ia-damned ridiculous. I don’t know how you do it, especially with the nether equipment,’ she said to Tenebrae, who waited outside.
‘You get used to it,’ Tenebrae said, shrugging. ‘We’ve spotted the shore and Narbonne. I’ve instructed Ysmay to slow to half-speed.’
I nodded at Tenebrae, acknowledging the information. He wore the uniform, but ultimately, I was in command. I do not understand all the turnings and choices that had to happen to get me to this point. But there I was.
‘Seems like you should wear the dresses and we should have trousers,’ Carnelia said.
Tenebrae smiled, but it did not last long. But he said, ‘That would make a pretty picture, would it not?’
When the wharf master came out in a skiff and stood on deck in the blustery wind, he did not look at us askance, except to give news of the destruction and ask what we’d seen of it. Tenebrae described the destruction in terse, if graphic, terms.
The wharf master was a thick, genial man with a wide, flat face and ruddy cheeks. He was a tippler, no doubt, and heir to a thousand other sins, I think, though I could not be sure of that.
The man whistled, a forlorn sound, like a miniature lighthouse horn blowing into the night. ‘They say that the daemon still burns, tromping all about, smiting left and right with great fists of fire. Thousands of hectares of land, just gone. There’ll be full-on war, now,’ he said. As an afterthought, he looked at our requisition request. He was not really interested in the rote performance of his job. He wanted to talk and not to listen. This was a man who loved the reverberations of his own vocal chords. ‘Fuckin’ beaners. Fuck ’em all to Hell. But Tamberlaine is crafty, that one, our Great Father. He suspected, after the Harbour Town incident, he did. They made a grave mistake, there, going for the tail before the head. Tamberlaine sent his generals and navarchs from Rume and all were safely away. Along with the treasury. Rume still has silver enough to war.’ He looked at the Typhon and whistled. ‘She’s an evil-looking bitch, isn’t she?’
Tenebrae made murmurs of assent.
‘Your best choice is to hug the coast. The flotilla regroups in Beaticæ in a fortnight to keep the Medierans out of the Nous. I have standing orders here. All children under the age of ten are banned from the cities – there are villages teeming with toddlers scurrying about like rats now. A plague of children. Mass evacuations. Go to Beaticæ. You can join with the fleet there.’
Tenebrae nodded. ‘Thank you, sir, for your advice. We are grateful to you for your service.’
The wharf master seemed pleased. ‘Bring your ship to port, we’ll top off your water and fill your requisitions. We’re low on rum, but we’ve gin enough and limes by the basket out of Ægypt.’ He paused and looked about. ‘Proceed with provisioning, Captain Regulus,’ he said. He folded the requisition order and tucked it inside his jacket and re-boarded the skiff.
Tenebrae walked to the bulwark near where I stood idly coiling a piece of hemp over and over, and watched as the skiff moved away.
‘She’s done a fine job so far,’ he said, patting the side of the ship. ‘Even when the seas have been high, she’s not floundered. And submersible!’
‘I have not the experience at sea. I can’t be a real judge. I’ve heard tales of men sailing to the edge of the world in a simple sailboat. I can’t believe a ship that can spend time under the surface, such as the Typhon does, could not weather a crossing of the Occidens,’ said I.
‘We are agreed,’ Tenebrae said. ‘Should we speak of this to Carnelia?’
After a moment, we both looked at each other. He placed his hand on my arm. We laughed. Harder than we had any right to. Of c
ourse, Carnelia wouldn’t give a fig. If there was a great sea worm pacing the Typhon, she would try to woo him, wed him, or behead him. No journey across the Occidens would faze her.
‘What are you laughing at?’ A voice came from behind us.
Turning slowly, we both came to face Carnelia.
‘Nothing at all,’ Tenebrae said.
‘Nothing,’ I agreed.
It was impossible to stop the laughter from erupting. It was all too much. Death. Destruction. Our horrible predicament. Fiscelion, a pawn in such a destructive game. And Secundus. Our business precluded reflecting on my brother, whom I loved and is gone now.
I’m sure Tenebrae felt keenly – more keenly, truly – the loss of our brother, Secundus. To us he was dear. To Tenebrae he was love, through and through. No man would abrogate his duties and oaths for less.
We took on water and provisions and steamed away. There was a moment when Ysmay moved to go on deck while at port, and Lupina, holding Fiscelion, slid between the engineer and the door, shaking her head and looking at him very seriously. It did not take Ysmay very long to notice the cleaver in her hand. Fiscelion cooed.
‘Mister Ysmay,’ I said from where I sat studying the navigational equipment – we all made a study of steering and controlling the Typhon for safety’s sake. ‘I think it would be best if you remained below deck while we’re at port.’
‘So I’m a prisoner,’ he said.
I sighed, and turned to him. ‘Would that I could have taken this boat without bloodshed. As I said before, you will not be harmed. But we cannot take the chance that you will begin telling stories to our new friends in Narbonne.’
Ysmay smiled then, an odd reaction to what I was saying. But it was not genuine. It was a pained, tight smile, twisting his face even as he made it. Some men will try to pretend they’re not hurt. Or scared. Some men pretend even to themselves they are strong. But Ysmay, he was a man who was at least honest enough with himself to understand that he was out of his depth and in a bad situation, but was desperately trying to keep up his mask. It was painful to watch and made me sick to my heart that I was the cause of it.
Infernal Machines Page 15
