Infernal Machines

by Jacobs, John Hornor

  ‘Winfried?’ Fisk said.

  ‘Like some big cat, stalking around at night, hunting her prey. Had to stick a pistol in her ribs to chase her off. Inbhir and his men erected a sort of wooden shed to lock him in at night, shackled to a boulder.’ I shook my head. ‘I didn’t sign up to be a babysitter. Beleth’s face, at this point, looks parboiled. It’s rubbed raw by the muzzling.’

  Fisk sniffed, uncaring.

  ‘I need to talk with Neruda about fortifications. We have a unique opportunity – we know they’ll be coming. The Medierans might be distracted now with Passasuego, but they’ll turn their attention this way soon enough. We must be ready.’

  I nodded and beckoned Catch Hands over to fetch Neruda.

  But there was no need. He appeared on the wall, soon enough, and called out. ‘So, Ruman! You have come with an army. Will it keep trust and faith in our agreement?’

  Fisk turned and, finding a stump, stood upon it so all could see him. He fired his Hellfire into the air and the report of the weapon echoed across the valley. The clamour of the legionnaires establishing a camp fell away, and thousands of faces turned to look at my partner.

  A moment of diminution, then, where Fisk seemed to shrink, either from the weight of all those Ruman gazes upon him, or the grass laurels and bars glittering on his chest. He shrank. And then, he did that quirk of his shoulders, as if picking up a great weight, or slinging a fallen comrade over his shoulders. He squared himself, he cast doubt and fear away. And he stood straight, head high, as if all of the Hardscrabble and Occidentalia be damned.

  ‘Fortune plays her games,’ he bellowed into the afternoon air. The sun was in the west and the shadows lengthened. Mist rose from the Grenthvar land, seeping up. Yet Fisk’s voice was like a roar. ‘And while I wear the grass laurels and stand before you, your captain, your legate, your commander, you do not know me.’

  There was a murmur in the men, the clattering of carbines, and the whisking of cloth as hundreds shifted their weight. But he had their attention.

  ‘So, allow me to get acquainted with you. This wall,’ he yelled, pointing back at the Pactum. ‘This wall is sacred. It is built on the word of Rume – Rume that is no more except in our actions! – and it will not be violated. Not by any son of Rume, not by any Medieran whore’s son. It is inviolate! Do you understand?’

  There were murmurs. There were mutters.

  ‘I require an Ia-damned verbal assent that you men understand! So help me Ia!’ Fisk’s voice boomed, almost impossibly loud. Maybe it was a trick of the natural structure of the valley. Maybe it was just seeing my friend in a new light, from a new angle. He tolerates Gynth. He falls in love. He has a new family. There is room to grow, even in the most calcified hearts.

  A titanic multitude of voices called out, ‘Yes, sir!’

  Fisk bowed his head. ‘Your country, your home, your trust is there, in that stone. And should any man break that trust, he will surely die.’

  Silence, then. Breathing. Fisk stared at them all. Whatever issue his optios and centurions might have with their new, jumped-up commander (and they would have many), none could deny the air of menace about Fisk, the threat of his posture. And he was known in these parts – many a soldier had heard of Fiscelion Iulii, the pistolero, the man who wed the governor’s daughter. If there’s one thing soldiers love more than whoring and gambling, it is camp talk. And they would have spoken of him.

  Fisk holstered his pistol and stepped down from the stump. He turned to look at Neruda on the wall. Neruda met his gaze with a stern inclination of his head, then he, too, stepped down and approached. From all accounts a child of rape, mixed race, a commoner and reviled (like me) by those in power in the Hardscrabble, he’d been a simple sculptor, a craftsman, a mason, until the weight of his words tipped the balance from sculptor to statesman. He carried himself with a centred assurance that would be welcome in any command, any senate or governor’s chambers. He was a man who had outgrown his beginnings and risen high.

  ‘We have fulfilled our part, we have begun mining the silver,’ Neruda said. ‘No son or daughter of the mountain will break faith with you as long as you do not break faith with them.’

  Fisk took off his hat and brushed his greying hair from his eyes. His stubble had matured into a beard and it was near white now, just the barest hint of pepper in a craggy field of salt.

  He held up his arm, exposing the angry but healing red mark where he’d let and mingled blood with Neruda. ‘You’d have me bloodless. I swore to you before and I don’t feel the need to do so again.’

  Neruda shrugged. ‘There are no words, no blood, no outside bond that will force a man to act against his nature, and I have weighed your nature. I have taken every grain of it. You will keep your word.’

  Fisk nodded. ‘It’s not me you have to worry about, boss,’ he said.

  Neruda smiled. ‘The wise can laugh. The foolish walk about always serious.’

  My partner scowled. ‘Can we cut the poetry? There’s an army out there and we need to fortify. You have maps?’

  Neruda nodded.

  ‘Well, we’re a moveable feast out here, but we killed an auroch only yesterday. We’re meat-heavy and well provisioned. In a short while, the command tent will be erected, camp will be struck, and I will fete you best I may and we can discuss defence. Is that acceptable?’

  Neruda smiled. ‘Of course. We will break bread and bring the heart, intelligence, and wisdom this land has bestowed upon us.’

  ‘Just bring an appetite and leave poetry beyond the wall.’ Fisk stopped. ‘And Winfried. I want her there. And the old bag.’

  ‘Praeverta?’ Neruda asked.

  ‘What other old bag do you have behind that wall?’ Fisk asked.

  ‘Many,’ Neruda said. ‘And many of them more fearful than Matve Malve.’

  ‘Malve?’ Fisk said.

  ‘Mother Misery,’ Neruda said.

  It was Fisk’s turn to laugh. ‘On second thought, leave her home.’

  The legionnaires established a camp in record time, away from the Pactum Wall, among the trees wreathing the valley. The gambels and pines began to fall, rapidly, and sooty, creosote-thick smoke from fires began rising to the heavens.

  Ruman soldiers are a nation on the hoof – their food, their arms, their gods, their traditions, they drag with and behind them like a comet cutting through the sky, pulling a bright tail of star stuff behind them. The war vehicles ratcheted to a stop, and the wagons and vardos with them. The lictors, priests, and engineers disembarked from their various carriages, the numerous chow bucks pulled into where the legionnaires were marking the future streets and thoroughfares in the camp that would eventually become a small town, if the future held promise. So many things we do for an uncertain future.

  A great mechanised water wagon, much like the two clattering armoured wagons, chuffed up, belching smoke. Hanging all about the beast of a machine were smiths, and junior munitioners, and engineer apprentices smiling and hooting, too young for seriousness and not under the auspices of the Bull or Wolf banners, free to be excited at the prospect of war and too inexperienced to know better.

  The praetorium tent was raised like a blister on a thumb after snatching a hot iron, and just as quickly – planks laid, canvas unrolled, ash struts and poles put in place, centre spike raised, and hemp holding it down. Something that always amazed me, the efficiency of the Ruman camp.

  Daemon lanterns were strewn about, as the sun had passed beyond the rim of earth. The western sky was bruised pink and purple, magnificent and sad; Harbour Town still smouldered in the west, even months later. Some daemonfire burns so hot even stone turns molten.

  We gathered in the praetorium tent with Fisk’s junior legates, younger sons of Ruman nobility left behind with Marcellus’ foray east – to a boy, they all looked uncomfortable heeding his commands, though they dashed about fetching wine and bread and olives and cheese. The real work of camp orders and warfare was left to the optios and legate sec
retaries – most of them young men with bright minds and the patterns of correspondence and bureaucracy memorised. The main command tables were set and soon Neruda appeared with an armful of rolled maps, followed by Winfried and Praeverta and no one else.

  ‘Hello, Winfried,’ Fisk said. ‘You look well. How is your arm?’

  She glanced at me and back to Fisk.

  I’d left Catch Hands watching Beleth with a pistol and a dagger. Gynth was nearby, waiting for me to bring him meat from the shoal auroch Fisk had mentioned but he’d said, with a shrug, ‘You tarry late, I will find my own auroch.’ This he said in the common tongue, which surprised me to no end and made Catch Hands laugh. Vaettir were quick to learn, quick to adapt. Quick in all things.

  Catch Hands pointed at the vaettir and said, ‘Could I dash about with your speed, I would accompany you.’

  Gynth just looked at him blankly. ‘My shoulders are broad and you are small,’ Gynth had said. He added, ‘But no bit or bridle will touch me. I will carry thee as my own sweet babe,’ rising to the formal dvergar. Catch Hands laughed and hopped up, dusting his britches.

  ‘Only after our parley with Neruda,’ said I. They had both looked at me, chagrined.

  Now, Winfried, for her part, gave a small bow, common to Malfenians. Hands flat on her sides, so formal. Back straight. The Ruman bow was so much silkier, so much more fluid. Maybe this is because of the Malfenian incestuous embrace. When you’re fucking your sister, if there’s not a great amount of formality, soon you’ll be thrusting away at all your relatives. I’m ashamed to admit I’ve pondered the Malfenian situation more than probably is healthy.

  Anyway, Winfried had found her suit, and it had been brushed smooth and removed of natty bolls, but she spared the hat and had let her hair down. She looked quite lovely.

  I understood her urges, the currents that ripped at the river of her soul. Her love had died. Her brother. So many brothers lost, Livia and Carnelia’s, too. Winfried wanted revenge. We all want for revenge on this monster of a world.

  ‘I’m glad you can join us,’ Fisk said, gesturing for her to find a seat. He snapped at one of his staff and a young secretary scuttled forward with a tray of wine and water. ‘You’ve always had very keen insights, and I’m glad of your input.’ He turned and gave a half-bow to Praeverta, saying, ‘And you, Matve, welcome. Your experience and wisdom is a gift.’

  Praeverta seemed discomposed by the kindness and flattery. She puckered her lips. ‘You clean up, nice, don’t you, lad,’ she said, looking Fisk up and down. He’d washed his face and changed from his riding leathers and pistolero garb into the white tunic and blue trousers of the Ruman legionnaires. His grey hair was swept back from his face and the natural handsomeness of the man allowed to show. Raw-boned and rangy, but in our time together there’d been many a woman, high-born and low, who had made doe-eyes at Fisk.

  ‘Is it possible,’ Neruda said, softly, ‘that Mister Fiscelion is like the Grenthvar himself, possessed of depths and hidden reserves, welcoming to all who come near, Matve?’

  She sniffed. ‘I’ve spent time with the man. It’s doubtful.’

  Fisk laughed. A rare thing and always an honest one. ‘Praeverta strikes near the mark, I’m afraid,’ Fisk said, and gestured to a table. Neruda approached and unrolled the maps. ‘I have been unfettered for so long, the legate’s laurels and bars are a tether I’ve not got used to. I am good at the killing of men. I’m ill-suited to the leading of them.’

  ‘Earnestness is a foundation for all aspiration. If your people cannot feel your honesty, and what you aspire to, they cannot follow you.’ He looked over Fisk. ‘I do not think that will be your problem.’

  ‘No,’ Fisk said, unrolling maps. ‘My problem will be Medierans.’ He chose one of the larger maps and weighted down the edges with daemonlight lanterns. ‘How accurate is this?’

  ‘I drew it when we first heard of Rume’s interest in this area,’ Neruda said. ‘We scouted extensively.’

  ‘Is there access to the valley from the east? Through the Eldvatch?’ Fisk asked.

  ‘Unless they know our warrens and passages through the mines, no,’ Neruda answered. ‘The sons and daughters of the mountain, alone, know those ways.’

  Fisk nodded, frowning. I knew him well enough that I did not need to ask to know his displeasure – already the agreement to not pass the Pactum Wall was rankling. He could not personally ascertain the reliability of his perimeter. He would have to trust to Neruda for that.

  ‘The edges of the valley, this ridge here,’ Fisk said, jabbing a finger at the map and running the length of the dark mark on the parchment. ‘Is it impassable?’

  ‘For cavalry, yes. For infantry, no,’ Winfried said. ‘With Neruda’s permission, I have made a personal assessment of the mines, the mountains, and the valley. No Medieran will approach from the east, so we have a solid wall at which to place our backs. The West is wide open and will need to be heavily fortified. To the north and south, on those ridges, it will be very difficult to take us unaware. Should they attempt it, their losses will be heavy. If we take suitable precautions.’

  Fisk looked at Winfried, with a tight smile. ‘This is good. Your word is one I can trust,’ he said.

  ‘And mine is not?’ Neruda responded, grinning.

  ‘I did not—’ Fisk began.

  ‘Why was I not summoned to this parley?’ A booming voice came from the tent entrance. We all turned as one to face him. A grizzled, sloppy man, barrel-chested and wearing a scorched apron over sooty clothing. He had a wide, blunt face and a mouth that could take in a draught horse’s hoof, if one would be kind enough to kick him there.

  No one else noticed that Fisk’s hand went to his hip. But I did. It was his Hellfire he reflexively went to at the sound of the man’s voice. If this was but two years ago, on the streets of Passasuego or New Damnation, Fisk might’ve shot him, had he been addressed in such a way. But today, Fisk (finding that he was not wearing a gun) forced himself to give a quick bow and say, ‘Princeps Engineer, Donalind Vemus.’ Fisk turned to Neruda. ‘Lovingly referred to by the legions as “Black Donald”.’

  Black Donald’s meaty face split open in a grin. ‘That’s right. And the men, they love me, do they not, Lord Commander?’

  Fisk’s shoulders hitched up, as if fending off a blow. After a moment, they relaxed.

  ‘The Ruman soldier loves not words but action, Vemus,’ Fisk said. ‘And soldiers love Hellfire. In this way you are adored.’

  ‘Very prettily done, upjack.’ Black Donald stumped up to the table. He was built like a bull and moved like one, too. He glared at one of Fisk’s staffers and bellowed, ‘Wine!’ The lad looked to Fisk, who nodded, indicating the boy should fetch Black Donald his own bottle. ‘And who’re these lovelies?’ he asked, ogling Praeverta and Winfried.

  ‘This is Neruda, the leader of the dvergar indigines. To his right is Dveng Ilys—’

  ‘Don’t care about the short half-breeds,’ Black Donald said. ‘Just the split-tail.’

  ‘Mister Vemus,’ Fisk said. ‘Are you trying to make enemies?’

  Black Donald gave a double-take. ‘What?’ he asked, truly confused. ‘No, man. But I’ve got priorities, Ia help me.’ He sighed and nodded to Neruda and myself in turn. ‘Gentlemen,’ he murmured. He turned and approached Winfried and took her hand, raised it to his mouth and kissed it. He did the same to Praeverta.

  ‘Careful with that one, sir,’ I said. ‘She’ll gut you as soon as kiss you.’

  The old woman cast me a disgusted look. ‘Shut your trap, dimidius,’ she said. ‘Before you start catching flies.’ To Black Donald, she said, ‘A pleasure.’ And damn me if she didn’t smile at the burly man and let her blue-veined hand linger as he brought it to his lips.

  When the munitioner was through, he clapped his hands and said, ‘So, my smelt? My production area? Where are we with them and how soon will they be ready for me? I have but a single silver pig, and binding the furnace daemon will require at lea
st half of that. So?’ He looked around expectantly at Fisk and Neruda.

  Fisk beckoned him over to the map and they began discussions. Praeverta and Winfried poured glasses of wine and joined them. I took my leave, since much of the disposition of the smelt and workshop I already knew. After checking with Catch Hands, I saddled Bess, and rode out, east toward where the Grenthvar doglegged south and the trees fell away to grass and then scrub-brush and bramblewrack. The Hardscrabble. The far eastern edge of it. I found a vantage on a rise and rode to it while the last light of the sunset still hung above and the stars came out.

  I let my eyes adjust to the growing gloom, looking for the scout outriders; Lina, Seanchae, Vrinthi. The best scouts of Praeverta’s cadre.

  But they were not to be seen. After a moment, I realised that Gynth was there with me, looking westward. He’d stolen up on me without my knowledge. Had it been any other vaettir – Any other? Or most other? Were they all so dissimilar from Gynth? – I might’ve been dead now. He looked at me and said, in common speech, ‘The waiting is the hardest part.’

  I laughed. Gynth blinked. Then he laughed too.

  ‘You’re an odd fellow, Gynth. We make a fine brace of outsiders, do we not?’

  ‘Always on the outside, looking in. Always on the inside, looking out,’ he said in dvergar. It was some sort of joke, I assumed, because he seemed especially pleased with himself for making it. Then he said, ‘Look there. Riders.’

  The sky had taken on the deep hues of coming night, smeared with great swatches of colour – orange and purple and pink. The clouds looked like rock salt, striated and craggy, moving like behemoths across the plains of the sky. The riders seemed tiny against the vastness of heaven, shoal plain, and horizon.

  It took them a long while to come into view, but when they did, I knew it was not my dvergar scouts. Not Lina.

  When they drew near enough, Samantha said, ‘Take me to Beleth.’ Sapientia, riding behind her, looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Now,’ Samantha said.