by Julia Knight
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Not a lot of call for them. But yes, as it happens, I do. Can do you a good price too.”
“Oh, I don’t want to buy it,” Egimont said. “I want to know who you bought it from.”
The woman’s mouth twitched as she looked him over, noted the way his hand rested on his sword, went on over his men and back to him. “Don’t suppose I got much choice, then? A bloke from up the way there. New to the area, he said. Bit of a dandy, seemed to be, in his manner, but he reckoned he were a farmer. Didn’t look like no farmer to me, excepting his clothes. He looked like someone playing dress-up.”
“Did he say anything else?”
The woman hesitated with a greedy smile on her face, so Egimont took two bulls out of his purse and bounced them in his palm.
“Oh, aye, he did. Talkative bugger, he was. From Reyes, I reckon, accent sounded about right. Bit posh and all, for all he said he was a farmer. Reckon him and his sister are the ones renting the old place up past the Domenech manor. Said the beast had got too nervy, so I swapped him. Managed to beat him down, and all he got was a carthorse that’s seen better days.”
Egimont turned on his heel and mounted.
“The money?”
Once he’d have given her the money. Once he’d been an honourable duellist who wanted only to be the best there was. Once he’d had a heart that wasn’t dull and dead to anything except what he wanted, but money and a duchy and revenge were all that he wanted now.
“I’ll give you a tip instead. Always take the money up front.”
With that, he kicked his horse into a canter and led his men towards the Domenech place.
It took Vocho most of two days to get the first four locks off. He wasn’t too shabby at locks – the guild made sure the men and women they supplied for clients were well versed in whatever skills they might need, even if they looked down on them, and being able to pick a lock was very handy for certain jobs. But these locks were a make he’d never encountered before and none of his usual tricks worked, so it was down to brute force. At one point, covered in sweat and sporting a fine set of skinned knuckles, he’d considered putting the damned thing in with Kacha’s horse and letting him kick it to splinters, but the wood was harder than anything he’d encountered too. An axe barely even scratched it, and he no longer had the funds to buy a clockwork hammer that would have smashed the thing to bits in minutes. Fancy clockwork like that was for the rich; all most farmers had was one or two plainer pieces of machinery that they swapped about so everyone got a turn. Reyes city might be the clockwork wonder of the provinces, but the rural poor didn’t see a hell of a lot of it.
The thought of what the final lock must be protecting, and of the reward – ten thousand? It must be worth ten times that then – spurred him on. With Kacha out, taking Cospel’s share to the appointed place, he dragged the thing to the top of the yard, all the better to get a damned good swing at it, but each blow did almost nothing. The last lock was proving to be a bastard and a half, and despite the early spring chill he was sweating worse than the pigs. He took off his shirt, fetched a crowbar from the shed and tried again, and succeeded in doing nothing more than bust a gut, or that’s what it felt like.
His mood wasn’t much improved by the sight of Dom at the gate, waving a handkerchief and calling “Halloo!” up the hill.
Clockwork God preserve me, I’ve not been granted great reserves of patience. Please save me from this… man who will surely make what little I possess snap.
His prayers, as so often, went completely unanswered, in fact seemed to have the opposite effect as Dom picked his way across the mud and shit. And still none got on him. How in hells did he do that?
“Good morning!” Dom was one of those eternally cheerful people who would try the serenity of the Clockwork God himself. He dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief and held it delicately over his nose against the smell of the pigs behind the barn. “A turn in the weather, do you think?”
Vocho grunted in return, and Dom carried on with a whole spiel of twitterings that hurt Vocho’s ears. Kacha appeared on horseback at the far end of the lane, and Dom stopped his ramblings for a pace. Then, “Could we talk, somewhere privately, do you think?”
It seemed pretty private in the yard with only the chickens to overhear, but Vocho was intrigued despite himself, so led Dom to the gate of the first field. He was sort of proud of the field. Sort of because, well, who gave a crap about fields when you could be fencing? But if he had to farm, then he was proud of it. He’d had to make do without a clockwork plough, or even much of a plough horse, because Kacha’s devil beast had taken one look at the rig and tried to destroy it, and Vocho’s new horse was permanently exhausted, or at least looked like it every time it saw the plough. But he’d got there in the end. The wheat was just coming up, little streaks of green against the brown of the earth. It wasn’t exactly neat or anything, because it was just a field. But stuff was growing, and that was the important thing, right?
Dom gaped at the field in horror, twittered a bit and then became all business. “Vocho, you are no farmer.”
“Well, I farm so—”
A wave of Dom’s hand shut Vocho up. “No, it was clear to me the day you rented this croft. Do you think I’d try to court a common farmer’s sister? Make a fine mistress perhaps, but marriages are made of more, especially mine, if my father has any say in the matter. I think you catch my drift. Of course, my natural courtesy prevented me from saying anything, though now it becomes pertinent. You, sir, and I think you are a sir, are no farmer, and this field proves it. If I was in any doubt, seeing those sword scars on your chest would have clinched it. The sign of a guild education, if I’m not mistaken.”
Bugger. The silly sod was sharper than he looked, which wasn’t hard, in fairness. Time for the story they’d worked out in advance, though a new twist occurred to Vocho. He tried on a thoroughly abashed face, which didn’t sit naturally but it seemed to work. “It’s a little delicate. I mean…” He leaned in, going for open trustworthiness. Had to be worth a stab. “Can I rely on you not to say anything?”
Dom bridled at that, pulled himself up to his not very tall best height and puffed out his chubby soft chest. “Naturally. We’re both gentlemen, aren’t we? I shall give you my word.”
Vocho was hard pressed not to laugh, but let his acquired accent, honed from years of insulting gentlemen, slip through. “A slight problem with an arranged marriage.”
Dom squinted as he thought about this. “She is your sister? I mean, you aren’t, well, married to her yourself?”
Vocho’s grimace was genuine enough. “She’s my sister, that’s for sure. No, our father had some marriage all lined up, but she didn’t take very well to the idea, or the intended groom. So we left. If he finds us…”
“Oh, rest assured, your secret is safe with me. Not a word shall cross my lips, on my honour as a gentleman.”
Most of whom had about as much honour as chickens, in Vocho’s experience, at least when it came to getting what they wanted. But Vocho had caught glimpses here and there that Dom was a closet royalist – plenty still about, most of them dreaming about the romance of nobles and ladies and balls and a gentleman’s or woman’s honour and all that tripe. Mostly these were the new nobility-without-titles. The self-made clockers’ sons and daughters, who didn’t remember what the gentry had really been like, read the old – and frankly made up – stories romanticising them, only saw the grand houses their parents had bought, saw the paintings and fine things that had come with them and thought the people surely must have matched. Gentlemen and -women they hadn’t been, his guild education had made that abundantly clear, though to Vocho’s mind the clockers were little better. When he’d been in the guild it hadn’t mattered – its members were something apart from clockers or nobles alike. It was starting to matter now though.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “Such a trial for my sister, living like this, you know. But worth it. And
of course we’d never have met you otherwise, and I know my sister thinks of you often.” Vocho mentally added in extremely uncomplimentary terms. “I do wonder, now that you’ve guessed our secret, whether you might do me a small favour. It would certainly help Kass look upon you even more favourably.”
Dom’s eyes lit up and positively glowed at the request. He gave a stiff, formal bow that had his hat skimming the mud. “Certainly, if I can.”
God’s cogs, he was almost too easy. Vocho looked around as though afraid someone might overhear them. “Our father is an odd man. Rather old-fashioned – you know what fathers are like.”
Dom nodded eagerly. His own father was nothing short of a tyrant, and a bit of sympathy would only help Vocho here.
“Extremely old-fashioned, and so was the intended groom as well as just being plain old. So when Kass got betrothed, they tricked her into having a magician put wards on them both, tattoos like you said.”
Dom took an aghast step back, handkerchief to his mouth. “May the Clockwork God preserve our gears, how barbaric!”
“You see why we had to get away? Why we wanted to know about magicians? The chest – sort of a ruse. Kass knew you’d know, because you’re so educated and worldly wise.” Vocho wondered if he might be laying it on a bit thick, but Dom looked tickled pink. “To tell you the real reason seemed imprudent. And of course, if you want me to help press your suit with Kass…”
Really, when it came down to it, Dom was quite decisive. Perhaps the thought of those tattoos – the only magic Vocho was sure about and that because of him – had sharpened his mind.
Dom waved his hand, as though the thought of Vocho’s favour in the matter of Kass had never crossed his mind. “Even if I didn’t, I thought those wards hadn’t been used in years! Not since the prelate killed all the mages, at least. I’m surprised your father could find a magician to do it. Turning up all over, all of a sudden. What do you need me to do?”
“Outlawed, yes, but there are still people prepared to use them, and magicians prepared to draw them, if you know where to find them. It’s not far to Ikaras, and a few people might slip past the guards, might go to your old university to find a magician. What I need is a magician to undraw them. Someone we can trust, and someone within the borders if I can, because my father’ll have them watched, you can be sure.” Vocho wanted to know who this magician was. There wouldn’t be two in Reyes, couldn’t be, but if there was one… Dom would perhaps know or could find out without suspicion falling on Vocho. Dom might be a ninny but he was a well connected ninny.
“I quite understand,” Dom said. “And rest assured, I’ll breathe not a word! Poor Kassinda would be ruined if anyone were to find out. Especially around here. The capital is much more tolerant of such things, so I’ve heard. A magician, yes, perhaps I might be able to help. Perhaps. I’ve heard a rumour about a magician just lately. Didn’t think to believe it of course, but now, yes, maybe it’s true after all. Perhaps I can help. But he’ll cost.”
Vocho looked down forlornly at his sackcloth trousers. “That’s a shame, really. My sister would so love to know you better, I’m sure, but with the tattoo she’s embarrassed, you see?”
Dom seemed to struggle with himself for a while, opening his mouth, closing it, going pink about the ears. Finally he said, “If I can persuade my father that you two really aren’t farmers… and he has been on at me to finally chose a wife… Who was your father, did you say?”
“I didn’t, and I won’t just yet. Not until those wards are off. With them on, he still controls her, in a way. He’s looking for us, I know. My cousin is helping him. He has a big place up to the north, in the mountains – perhaps you’ve been there?” A smile and a knowing wink.
Dom’s mouth flopped open at the word “cousin” and the hint at the palace in the mountains, the only big place for miles. A subtle little misdirection always worked wonders – the king had the gods knew how many cousins, so Dom would hardly know them all. Or indeed Vocho’s actual cousin, who wasn’t a king but a knacker’s man with a big yard in the next town.
“I’m certain I can arrange a loan to cover the fee,” Dom gasped out eventually. Vocho could almost see the visions he was having: of living in a palace in the capital, of reflected if banned rank, of making his father bow to him even if it was strictly outlawed.
“And I certainly won’t forget it, on my honour as a gentleman,” Vocho said. Down the lane Kacha was nearing the house. “Now, would you like to see Kass while you’re here?”
Chapter Five
Kacha spotted Dom following Vocho as he dragged the chest across the mud-splattered yard, swore and reined her horse in. It didn’t take kindly to being told what to do – it rarely did – and tried to bite her foot. She swatted its mouth away absent-mindedly and it settled for terrorising a nearby bush.
She knew what her brother was about, damn his eyes. Trying to make up for it, for the whole debacle with the priest. Trying to make sure she got another good match, even if as a duellist she’d never marry – all duellists swore never to hold anything above the guild, so no marrying, no children.
Screw good matches; it hadn’t been that she’d been after. She’d not been after any kind of match, good or otherwise, before Petri.
What had it been? She couldn’t say, not with any sureness. Because Petri and Vocho were opposites, because they balanced each other in her life perhaps. Petri was everything that her brother wasn’t; all the things that annoyed her about Vocho found their reverse in Petri.
He’d taken her as he’d taken everything – seriously, demanding nothing of her but her time. His affection hadn’t depended on her being obedient, diligent, perfect, not like with Eneko and her da before him. Petri had been the Pole Star in her life, a constant antidote to the streaking comet that was Vocho.
Until he’d stopped being constant in the blink of an eye.
But Dom instead? Sometimes she thought the whole thing with the priest had broken something in her brother’s head. He’d been odd ever since, through the whole nightmare of their inglorious run from Reyes. Past the note from Petri. In his handwriting, with his seal, which had said only “Renounce your brother, or return my ring, forthwith.” Her note back had been somewhat more acerbic – she’d described exactly what he could do with his bloody ring. She’d even drawn a little picture, in case he had trouble.
Petri hadn’t asked her whether it was true about the priest. Just the note, and the implication that Vocho was, naturally, guilty. What did he expect her to do? Blood was thicker than water, so they said, and hers and Vocho’s was thick with everything they’d been through together, even if she was tempted to throttle him occasionally. OK, quite often.
Seeing Petri again had been a shock, and that “please” – that had almost undone her. But robbing him, and beating him into the bargain, had been so very, very satisfying. She wanted to do it again, and this time without a mask. She wanted him to say that maybe Vocho was innocent. She wanted to prove that was true, and perhaps that was the only thing that overrode the hate. Vocho was innocent, she had to believe that, that this whole farce was one they could fight back from. Not with money either, no matter what Vocho thought.
Vocho was trying, she knew that. Trying to get their standing back, their place in the guild. He didn’t seem to understand she wanted nothing from Petri, not any more. She’d stay and be a farmer shovelling pig shit for the rest of her life before she took a single thing from Petri, except perhaps his dignity, his honour, his pride, all those things that he’d taken from her with a few strokes of a pen. That was what she was going to do. Prove Vocho was innocent. Then she was going to parade that in front of Petri like a flag.
Maybe then she could lay that ghost to rest, stop dreaming of the note, of his face, half in darkness, half in light, just staring at her with those sharp dark eyes, kissing her silent and reproachful till she woke up with a cry on her lips.
Maybe.
So, Vocho was trying to make it up to her
, trying to make up for what he thought she’d lost. But hell’s teeth, Dom instead? Yes, something had clearly broken in her brother’s mind. She urged the horse on and its ears pricked up when she promised it that it could eat Dom’s hat.
Vocho tried a grin as Kacha shut the door on Dom and whirled to face him.
“And just what was that all about? Are you trying to encourage the gibbering idiot?”
Vocho held up his hands in a plea for peace. “Hey, a friend among the clockers can only help us right now. And if he’s sweet on you, all the better, as is the fact he’s prepared to get us a loan from his father. If I’d wanted to annoy you, and I accept that usually I do, I’d have accepted his proposal of marriage to you.”
“It seems he thinks that’s on the cards anyway. What, exactly, did you say to him?”
So Vocho told her, ending with, “And then we’ll leave with his money – without him, I promise,” and she calmed down, a bit.
“Thievery? I thought the highwayman stuff was bad enough. But we need to go if he knows we aren’t who we’ve been telling him. All right. But if it comes to it, you’re the one telling him we’re not getting married. Because I am not getting married, to him or anyone.”
“Fair enough.”
Vocho’s eyes kept going to the chest. He had to get the damned thing open. It was going to be the answer to everything. Weird though, that every time he got too close that itching started between his shoulder blades. It worried him. He’d spent hours trying to look in the mirror to see what it was and couldn’t see a damned thing. For reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, he didn’t want to ask Kacha to look either.
