Clockwork Menagerie: A Shadows of Asphodel Novella

by Karen Kincy

  No one knew where he had gone. No one could possibly find him now.

  Judging by the sun, the train clattered due east, the route of the Trans-Siberian Railway. Baron von Bach had been prophetic.

  The Russians really were shipping him to Siberia.

  Teeth chattering, Konstantin huddled against the burlap, his eyes stinging, the world outside an endless wasteland in black and white. What had he done? He would die in Russia, of all despicable places. Honestly, he expected his obituary to list a fascinating experiment gone wrong, but this was humiliating.

  Roughly, he scrubbed his face dry. They had stolen his gloves. Damn, he better not lose any of his fingers to frostbite. Despair wormed into the marrow of his bones. Vienna was gone. Himmel, gone. His life, gone.

  All because he had been utterly right.

  His stomach growled at this most inconvenient time. Raw potatoes weren’t on the menu. Konstantin was sure they tasted repulsive, and besides, he was allergic to potatoes, tomatoes, and any of their cousins. Perhaps the countess had intelligence on his weakness and conspired to torment him. More likely, she considered him as useless as a sack of potatoes, fit to be thrown onto the first train out of St. Petersburg.

  Knees tucked to his chest, he stared at the countryside along the tracks. Trees yielded to fields blanketed by snow. When he peered down the length of the train, he glimpsed an old steam engine, a brute of black iron, huffing as it burned through coal. They would stop to refuel, at some point. After some quick calculations and utter guesswork, he prayed the village on the horizon would be their next stop.

  Breaks squealing, the train finally slowed. His muscles tensed. First stop: escape.

  Gripping the door, fingers numb, he stared at the ground rushing beneath his feet. What velocity would fracture his legs? He wished he had studied more anatomy. Well, not everyone could have a degree in medicine.

  Konstantin exhaled, a cloud of white, and jumped from the train.

  The impact knocked the breath from him. He rolled along the tracks, tumbling through the bushes, until he crashed into a drift. Spitting snow, he lay on the cold. When he inhaled, his ribs ached, though nothing seemed broken. He pushed himself to his feet and brushed his hands off, skin stinging with pinpricks of ice.

  The train clattered along the tracks, smoke tickling his lungs, and as he coughed, it vanished between the trees. Already the sun fell from its apex in the sky; it would be dark soon, when the cold could kill him.

  His intestines tightened into a knot. He had never been so alone and friendless.

  Himmel waited for him in St. Petersburg. The thought of Theodore steeled his resolve. Clenching his jaw stopped his teeth from chattering. Konstantin glanced at the sun and followed the Trans-Siberian Railway westward.

  An unclear quantity of time later, he halted, panting, and sat in the snow to rub his ankles. He wished he hadn’t snubbed those Prussian jackboots; his own boots were too short to keep the crust of ice from scraping his ankles raw. His toes felt numb from the cold; when would frostbite hit? Damn it, he had to keep walking.

  Deep in a forest of pines, the lights of a village glimmered through the trees.

  Hiking quicker, he scanned the horizon, searching for shelter. His breath sounded ragged in the winter silence. Snow cloaked a weatherworn wooden barn. He stumbled to the door and peeked inside. The warmth of hay and cows chewing cud wafted out to him, the most heavenly aroma. If he were lucky, he—

  A bark shattered the quiet.

  Gripping the barn door, he faced the beast. A white shepherd stared at him, ears pricked. Intelligence glinted in its dark eyes.

  He flattened himself against the rough wood of the barn. “Nice doggy!”

  The animal cocked its head as Konstantin fumbled with the latch. When the dog sat down, he ducked into the barn and slammed the door. Cows sniffed the back of his head, unimpressed, before returning to their cud.

  “Thank God,” he whispered. Shaking, he sank onto the hay and rubbed his hands together.

  Outside, the dog’s claws scrabbled on the door. Konstantin’s heart skipped a beat. A bark echoed through the barn. He grabbed a twig from the dirt, opened the door, and offered it through the crack. The dog barked again.

  “Quiet!” he hissed, and the dog responded with a muffled growl.

  Fear pulsed through his blood. A bite could become infected, and it could be days before he could seek medical—

  The dog’s muzzle poked through the door; a cold, wet nose sniffed his hand.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any food at the moment.” Konstantin forced himself to breathe.

  The dog wedged through the door and trotted into the barn. As the door creaked shut, Konstantin dropped into the hay and tried not to stare at the dog, which tried not to stare at him. It lay down, yawned, and put its nose between its paws. Not an it, really, but a bitch. He had seen enough to know the dog was female.

  “You look like White Fang,” Konstantin said, as the dog flicked an ear.

  That American author, Jack London, wrote such marvelous tales of wolves and wolf-dogs battling to survive in the wild.

  “White Fang?” He tilted his head. “Or simply Fang?”

  The dog’s eyebrows jumped as she glanced at him. She licked her nose.

  “We should sleep, Fang.”

  Konstantin curled in the hay, the smell of cows and alfalfa and manure filling his nose, and allowed his eyes to close.

  “Kakogo cherta?”

  Startled awake, Konstantin stared down the wrong end of a pitchfork, brandished by a peasant with fierce black eyebrows.

  Fang, lying along his leg, growled and bared her teeth. Guarding him?

  The peasant jabbed the pitchfork in his direction. “Stoy!”

  Konstantin stood, raised his hands over his head, and thought it best to say nothing, since speaking German would only incriminate him. He sidestepped toward the door, Fang slinking alongside, and escaped outside.

  Sun on snow dazzled him; cold hammered his lungs.

  He ran from the barn, spurred on by angry Russian shouts, and retreated into the forest. Gasping, he bent double and braced his hands on his knees. Fang loped after him, panting, her breath steaming the air. How on earth was she hot in the middle of winter? He eyed her plush white pelt with suspicious jealousy.

  “You should go home.” He pointed at the barn. “Home.”

  Fang tilted her head, her tongue hanging between her teeth. Maybe she wasn’t a guard dog; maybe she was a stray, like him.

  “Aren’t we lucky?” Konstantin muttered.

  Trudging along the railway, he spotted the unmistakable cables of telegraph lines, dipping to a train station. His hopes spiraled heavenward. These cables must lead directly to the nearest city: St. Petersburg. If he could hijack the telegraph transmitter, he could send a distress call to the hotel he shared with Himmel.

  He hesitated outside the station, clenching and unclenching his hands. Now what? Panting, Fang sat at his heel.

  “I can’t waltz inside,” he muttered. “If they saw a Viennese waltz, they would arrest me.”

  Fang’s yawn turned into a high whine. She seemed bored by his pun.

  “Wait here.” He held up his hand. “Stay.”

  Fang lay down. Close enough. Konstantin straightened his clothes, raked his fingers through his hair, and pushed through the door.

  Inside, a grizzled conductor in a blue uniform leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette. A passenger slept on a bench, his luggage scattered beneath him. The telegraph operator hunched behind a counter, scribbling down an incoming telegram. No more than a boy, really, with blond peach fuzz instead of a proper beard. He looked like he should be delivering telegrams, not operating a piece of delicate equipment.

  An idea hit Konstantin. Maybe he didn’t have to mug the telegraph operator.

  He strolled over and spoke English with a deliberate American accent. “Hello, sir.”

  Frowning, the operator replied in rapid-fire Rus
sian.

  “I speak no Russian,” Konstantin drawled. “Telegram?” He pantomimed writing, and received a pen and paper.

  Holding his breath, he wrote down a message, also in English.

  St. Petersburg

  Grand Hotel Europe

  Theodore Himmel

  Returning by TS rail. Very cold. Meet me. – K

  He slid the paper to the telegraph operator. “Collect, please.”

  “Da.” The boy tapped out the message in Morse code. At least he was efficient enough.

  Snuffing his cigarette, the grizzled conductor advanced. “Passport?”

  “One moment.” Konstantin pretended to rummage in his pockets while listening to the Morse code. T… S… R… A… I… L…

  That had to be enough for Himmel.

  “Excuse me.” Konstantin sidestepped the conductor. Exiting the station, his shoulders tensed, expecting a bullet in the back. The door banged open. When the conductor shouted, he shouted back, “I speak no Russian!”

  At least Americans had a reputation for being loud.

  Konstantin dodged into the forest and distanced himself from the station. Fang loped alongside him. Sunrise at his back, he hiked in a mindless oblivion. He had no hypothesis for how far he was from St. Petersburg.

  Minutes dragged into hours.

  Fang touched her nose to the back of his hand. When she whimpered, he frowned. “Yes?”

  The dog whined, ears quivering, and licked her chops. She had to be hungry.

  “You aren’t alone.” His knees trembled as he walked. “God, I would pay a hundred koronas for schnitzel. Or dumplings in soup.” His mouth watered so hard it hurt. “Or pastries stuffed with spinach and feta cheese.” He had eaten savory pastries in Greece, while fortifying the Hex in the islands of the Dodecanese.

  Motivated by this imaginary feast, Konstantin trudged onward. Fang trailed in his footsteps, her head held low in defeat. “Fang!” He stumbled over a boulder and decided to stay down. “You would love frankfurters.”

  Fang yawned. What a blasé dog.

  “Perhaps Russians import them from Vienna. Though there must be trade sanctions …” He laughed at his own delirious ramblings.

  When he slumped on the snow, Fang threw back her head with a bloodcurdling howl.

  “Quiet!” He shushed the dog. “This is a clandestine mission.”

  Fang howled again. Squinting, Konstantin stared at the blank expanse of the sky. Nothing. He closed his blurry eyes. Christ almighty, he was tired. He wanted to curl in the snow and sleep, but the damn dog wouldn’t stop howling. When she paused to inhale, another sound cut through the winter air: the drone of engines.

  A zeppelin cleared the treetops.

  onstantin dragged himself to his feet. The zeppelin’s fins bore the black double-headed eagle of Austria-Hungary.

  The Nachtigall.

  “Help!” He waved his arms over his head. “Please, help!”

  Propellers buzzing, the zeppelin held her own against a headwind. The Nachtigall dumped water ballast and dropped in altitude, her gondola grazing the snow. Himmel jumped through a hatch and hit the ground running.

  Konstantin staggered toward the captain, his legs refusing to comply. “Theodore.”

  “God, it’s you.” Himmel caught him by the shoulders and hauled him upright. “I flew day and night looking for you.”

  “The telegram arrived at the hotel?”

  “Yes.” Himmel marched him toward the zeppelin. “Hurry.”

  Konstantin fumbled to grip the rungs by the hatch, but his numb fingers betrayed him. Himmel boosted him inside. When he crawled into the airship’s underbelly, his eyes watered at the difference in temperature.

  “Wait!” Shivering violently, he looked through the hatch. “Fang!”

  The white shepherd bounded across the snow and jumped aboard.

  Himmel glared at Fang. “What the hell is this mongrel doing on my airship?”

  “She saved my life.” Konstantin patted her head. “She’s a hero.”

  Fang barked and wagged her tail.

  “You must be delusional.” When Konstantin wobbled, Himmel grabbed his elbow. “Christ, don’t fall through the hatch.”

  Konstantin teetered on the brink of tears. “I knew you would find me.”

  “This way.” Without ceremony, Himmel marched him into his quarters. “Now.”

  Stripped naked by the captain, Konstantin hugged himself, his teeth chattering. “What—?”

  “Get in bed.” The mattress creaked as Himmel sat, unbuckling his mechanical arm. “That’s an order, Falkenrath.”

  “Yes, sir.” Konstantin obeyed, crawling under the sheets.

  Himmel tucked a quilt over him before joining him, the heat of his skin searing. “God! You’re colder than a witch’s tits.”

  “That’s a disgusting thought.”

  “It’s true.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Konstantin huddled against the length of Himmel’s body, warming his back. “Thank you.”

  “Best remedy for hypothermia.” He sounded so gruff. “Not much to do about frostbite.”

  Konstantin tensed. He tried to wiggle his fingers; he felt like a rusted puppet. His skin prickled with a thousand needles.

  “Does it hurt?” Himmel said.

  “It itches.”

  “Good. That’s your circulation returning.”

  “God, it itches horribly!”

  He caught his hand. “Try not to scratch.”

  “So bossy.” Konstantin managed a smile. “When did my telegram arrive?”

  Himmel’s arm tightened around him. His mustache tickled Konstantin’s neck as he sighed. “After I searched all of St. Petersburg.”

  “I’m sorry, I should have told you where I went.”

  “You weren’t subtle. Kotlin Island was clearly your primary target, but I found nothing.”

  “Was she there?”

  “No sign of the countess. Though she contacted Baron von Bach.”

  Although Konstantin’s skin warmed, his blood ran cold. “What did she say?”

  “That you seduced an officer in exchange for military secrets, but he fed you false information before reporting you.”

  “Which officer?”

  “That Dmitriev man.”

  “Alexsandr? That’s absurd!” Konstantin rolled to face him. “I would never dream of approaching him in such a manner.”

  “I believe you.” Himmel’s eyes darkened. “But the ambassador didn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He doesn’t know that I flew out for you. He’s been ignoring the situation, as if you deserve to be punished by the Russians.”

  Konstantin’s stomach plummeted. “He believes the countess?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She caught me looking at the psychothaumaturgy in her laboratory.”

  Himmel clenched his jaw. “I’m not sure it matters now.”

  “But Theodore—”

  “You don’t understand the severity of this situation.”

  “Neither do you.” Konstantin shivered despite the warmth on his skin. “If the countess builds more beasts on the scale of the clockwork dragon, we won’t be able to defend Königsberg. Russia outnumbers us two to one.”

  “I don’t care about Königsberg.”

  “If Königsberg falls, the rest of Prussia is at risk. The German Empire itself.”

  “You could have been killed.” Pain roughened Himmel’s voice. “Frozen, executed, starved to death in Siberia.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want your apologies. I want you here. With me.”

  Konstantin pressed his face to Himmel’s shoulder and inhaled the clean smell of his sweat. Himmel kissed his cheek, mustache tickling, and growled out a sigh. They lay together, listening to the drone of the airship.

  Though he knew the safety of Himmel’s arms was sadly an illusion.

  Sitting outside the office of Baron von Bach, Konstanti
n shuffled through papers. He had written a report on recent events: the clockwork menagerie, the psychothaumaturgy laboratory on Kotlin Island, the train to Siberia.

  Would it be enough? What could he bring as proof?

  Mouth parched, he leapt to his feet when the baron swept open the door. The ambassador’s face looked stony. “Enter.”

  Konstantin clutched the folder. He followed von Bach into his office and balanced on the edge of a leather armchair. “Sir.”

  “What do you have to say?”

  “Here are my findings on the Russian technomancy.”

  Von Bach grabbed the folder, glanced through the papers, and tossed them aside. “I’m aware of the events that transpired.”

  Sweat broke out on Konstantin’s brow. “May I ask how?”

  The baron ignored the question, blowing air through his nose like a bull about to charge. He opened a battered envelope and slid a telegram across the desk. The paper quivered in Konstantin’s hand as he read.

  Archmage Konstantin to return to Vienna relieved of duty indefinitely

  Static rushed through his ears. The telegram blurred into gibberish, like a textbook the night before an examination. Though even as a student, he had never felt this hopeless and foolish. “What does this mean?”

  “Good God, man, can’t you read?”

  Konstantin dropped the telegram, the paper damp with sweat. “There must be a mistake.”

  “Your actions in St. Petersburg violated half a dozen diplomatic conventions.” Baron von Bach pounded the desk with his fist. “Not counting your jaunt to the Naval Engineering Institute. Did you proposition Captain Himmel?”

  Blood rushed from Konstantin’s face. “Pardon?” He sounded remarkably calm.

  “Don’t play innocent. You don’t understand the meaning of discretion.”

  “Himmel seems irrelevant, sir.”

  Von Bach’s nostrils flared. “You don’t deny the accusations?”