Emissary Metal OMNIBUS 1-3

by Paton, Chris

  “In you go. The Master will be along shortly.”

  I nodded my thanks and walked down the corridor to a drawing room at the far end. The walls were bare of pictures, but festooned with antlers of various sizes and lengths, the tips barbing the shadows in the ceiling high above me, jabbing at the air as the lamplight flickered with my passing.

  Seffi stood by the window, tracing the rain on the outside of the window with her fingertips. She turned to look at me as I entered, shaking her head as I presented her with the mug of tea.

  “Is that from the maid? She tried to get me to drink some while you were in the bath.” Seffi leaned forwards, sniffing at the tea.

  “I can't drink both of them,” I pushed the mug towards her.

  “I wouldn't advise drinking one of them. Put it on the windowsill.” Seffi walked towards the desk in the centre of the room. “Our host has an interesting collection of paperweights.” She picked up a dark object and inspected it.

  “Paperweights?” I put both mugs on the windowsill and joined Seffi at the table.

  “For holding down papers,” she shook her head. “Just because you lack a sense of order in your work, doesn't mean that others are the same. People with an orderly sense use paperweights to sort and arrange their work.” Seffi pressed the object in her hand onto the stack of papers as a door, recessed into the wall, creaked open, causing the edges of the papers to flutter in the draught. Flicking my arm with her hand, Seffi shifted her weight and moved away from the desk, her body poised for action.

  I watched as a thin man pushed open the door in the wall and slipped inside the room. He set the oil lamp in his hand on the mantelpiece above the fire and walked towards the desk.

  Hands raised, palms outwards, he stopped. “I startled you both. I do apologise.” Turning to the door whispering shut behind him, he gestured at it with long fingers. “I forget that it is hidden from view from this side.” The man turned back to face us. With a slight bow, he dipped his head, straightened his back and clasped his hands together behind him. “I am Horatio Whistlefish, and I welcome you to my humble estate.”

  “Thank you,” I walked around the desk to offer my hand. “My name is...”

  “Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Finsch,” Whistlefish took my hand. “I have read of your work with the spiders and I am terribly excited to see your emissary.” He let go of my hand, looking from me to Seffi and back again. “Is it here?”

  “It will be soon, Mr. Whistlefish,” I turned to look at Seffi. “I would like to introduce my colleague, Seffi...”

  “What do you know of Seamus Macfarlane, Herr Whistlefish?” Seffi held her hands at her sides.

  “I see your friend has something on her mind,” Whistlefish nodded. “Macfarlane the deerstalker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” Whistlefish moved a stack of papers and sat on the corner of the desk. “He is not my deerstalker, but he is known to the estate. On the rare occasion that we have guests, I have been known to employ him for a day of hunting. He is,” Whistlefish paused, “most thorough, and,” he lowered his voice, “rather cold. Clinical some might say.”

  “He is good then?” Seffi flexed her fingers.

  “Yes,” Whistlefish nodded. “I would say that he is very good. Why do you ask?”

  “Because, come the morning,” Seffi flicked her eyes in my direction, “he will be hunting us.”

  Chapter 3

  Encouraged by the wind blowing across Fionn Loch from the north, the rain pestered the window with an insistent percussive tap. The mountain ridgeline glowed in the twilit night as the moon shrank behind the clouds. Pressing my face close to the window, I watched as Bhàtair's ponies pulled the emissary into the courtyard. The old man unhitched the first of the four beasts of burden, leading it into the stable as two of Whistlefish's gillies tramped out of the kitchen and into the rain to help. The sound of Seffi's soft voice pulled me away from the window as Bhàtair disappeared from view.

  “Tell me more about Macfarlane.” Seffi stood by the hidden door, smoothing her hands around the recessed frame, pressing against the draft of air with her palm. She turned to Whistlefish as he contemplated her question.

  “You don't want to sleep?” Whistlefish nodded towards the window. “Dawn is but a few hours away.”

  “We'll sleep soon enough. Tell me about Macfarlane.”

  “Well,” Whistlefish walked around his desk, pulled out the leather armchair and sat down. “As I said, he is not permanently employed on the estate. He is contracted when needed.”

  “Does he use your staff?”

  “The Inverkirkaig gillies?” Whistlefish laughed. “No, the lads are somewhat in awe of Macfarlane. The younger ones are positively frightened of him. Bhàtair is the only one the stalker doesn't intimidate. I think they have a mutual respect for one another.”

  “And what about you?” I asked.

  “Me?” Whistlefish sighed. “I have other things to worry about. As I said earlier, we employ Macfarlane to entertain our guests, and we have had very few since Abigail became sick. But, from what I remember, Macfarlane has his own gillies. There are four of them. He sends two of them out on the flanks. Depending upon the season they beat for grouse or spot for red deer. He has a system of communicating over long distances – flags I believe. All very drab and low key. I have often thought about ways to improve his methods...”

  “What about the two other men?” Seffi left the door and joined me at the window. “You said Macfarlane had four gillies?”

  “Yes, there are two men with the hounds. They only come if he is hunting fox or something bigger.”

  “Bigger?” I leaned forwards.

  “Oh yes, Mr. Finsch. There are still wolves in Scotland. Despite Macfarlane's best efforts.”

  “He doesn't use a dog to track?”

  “Not that I recall,” Whistlefish paused. “Although, I do believe he favours one of the hounds. A small bitch with a scarred nose. She is missing the end of one nostril, if I remember correctly. Tough dogs,” he mused.

  “Four men,” Seffi pursed her lips. “And a pack of dogs. Karl?”

  “Yes?”

  “It is time we got some rest.”

  “I'll have Beatrice show you to your rooms.” Whistlefish stood up. “Wait,” pushing back his chair, he strode to the window. “That's it, isn't it?”

  I turned to look at the emissary’s crate as Whistlefish gripped my elbow. The cart was parked in the middle of the courtyard, the soft glow from the stable lamps beating back the rain to shine on the sodden surface of the wooden lid.

  “Yes.”

  “Damn the rain, I did not hear it arrive,” Whistlefish let go of my elbow. Pressing both palms on the windowsill, eyes dancing, he leaned forwards to stare at the crate.

  Seffi caught my eye and nodded towards the door through which we had entered the drawing room. We bade Whistlefish goodnight and made our way to the kitchen. With a brief wave of his hand, he mumbled something about breakfast before returning his attention to the crate. I admit that Whistlefish's interest in the emissary peaked my own interest in the days ahead, although a quick glance at Seffi dashed my optimism. I harnessed my enthusiasm, greeting the maid as we entered the kitchen.

  Beatrice stifled a yawn with a wrinkled hand as she led Seffi and I through the kitchen, past the bathrooms, and into a guest room. The twin beds, steepled with blankets and pillows, were tucked into the walls either side of a small fireplace. The coals winked as we stirred the air in the room.

  “Here you are,” Beatrice waited by the door as we entered the bedroom. “There's a small water closet in the hall and a chamber pot beneath your beds.” She pointed over her shoulder. “Breakfast is at eight o'clock. Don't be late if you want some of Abigail's links and potato scones. The boys love them.”

  “I thought she was sick?” I hovered by the door as Seffi chose the bed to the right of the fireplace.

  “Aye, the poor lass, she is at that. But she has more ener
gy in the mornings, and she likes to pull her own weight. Bless her. Now sleep well,” Beatrice glanced through the window at the light creeping around the curtains, “the few hours you have left, anyway.”

  I closed the door behind Beatrice as she retreated down the hall towards the kitchen. Pressing the door shut, I smiled at Seffi's soft snores as I walked over to my bed and slipped between the starched sheets. The pillow was cool beneath my head, the stubble of my beard scratching at the cotton cover as I tucked one arm around the pillow and closed my eyes.

  ҉

  Splinters, curses and Seffi's rough grip on my shoulder pulled me out of a twilit world of crashing waves, malt whisky, pony tracks and the smell of sausage. The sausage, thankfully, was real. So too was the cursing and crashing coming from the courtyard outside the window.

  “He is opening your crate,” Seffi fastened the buttons on her form-fitting waistcoat as I propped myself up on my elbows.

  “He is?”

  “Yes,” she smoothed her palms along the brushed wool front of the waistcoat, her fingers teasing at the lips of the pockets on each side. Crossing back to her bed, she pulled a slim leather envelope from beneath the pillow. Grasping the wooden handles of three small knives protruding from the envelope, she threaded it onto the belt at her waist. “I will have to talk to Whistlefish about getting hold of a musket or a rifle.”

  “Really?” I sat up, dropping my legs over the side of the bed, testing the temperature of the floorboards with the soles of my feet.

  “Yes, Karl. Really.” Seffi nodded at the window. “You're not concerned about them opening the crate without you?”

  I shook my head. “They can't damage the emissary. No more than I have, anyway. Besides,” I stood up, plucking at the fit of my long underwear, “they can't animate it without the controller, and that is locked inside the chest at the bottom of the crate.” I watched as Seffi sat on the bed and laced her boots to within one hole from the top of each boot, a hand's width beneath her knees.

  “Instead of gawping at me, Karl, I suggest you get dressed,” she pointed at the clothes hanging from a hook on the wall at the end of my bed. “The quality is impressive, and the colour is suitable for the terrain. Beatrice brought them in with the tea. She doesn't seem to sleep.”

  “There's tea?”

  “Under the bed. I poured it into the chamber pot.”

  “Best place for it.”

  “Yes. And now there is breakfast.” Seffi tugged at the sleeves of the white cotton shirt she wore beneath the waistcoat. I looked for the envelope of knives and found them tucked into the small of her back where the waistband of her trousers was raised to warm her kidneys. “You can smell the links?”

  “Links?” I frowned and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

  Seffi laughed, her hazel eyes lit in that moment with the playfulness I remembered from our first meeting in Frankfurt. “Yes, links. It took me a while to figure it out, but sausages are linked together with skin, Karl. We are German,” she shrugged. “It should have been obvious.”

  “But it wasn't,” I pulled the fresh shirt off the hanger and onto my back.

  “Don't be too long. You need to eat.”

  Seffi pulled the door closed as she left the room. I shrugged into my trousers and slipped my boots over thick wool socks. Crossing to the window, I parted the curtains with my fingers and peered out as the men of Inverkirkaig secured the emissary beneath a simple but sturdy hoist. Bhàtair stood to one side as the men passed the ropes through the block at the top of the hoist and tied them to the rig secured to two ponies harnessed side by side. I watched as Archie led the ponies by their halters, clicking his tongue as they took up the slack and pulled. The emissary slid along the bottom of the crate, tipping the cart as its cloven feet slipped over the edge. The cart rolled onto the two rear wheels beneath the weight of the emissary. Archie clicked the ponies a few yards more until the emissary stood on both feet. The cart rocked back onto all four wheels, rolling a few feet before Whistlefish's men caught it. They lifted the chest containing the controller and set it on the ground to one side of the emissary. Bhàtair walked forwards to untie the ropes.

  I stared at the emissary towering above the men, the early morning sunlight warming its bronze plates a deep copper glow. As the last rope fell from the emissary’s shoulders its head twitched, falling at such an angle that it pointed towards me. The men ignored it, but I felt that strange connection once again, almost as if, even without activating the lodestones, the emissary and I were in some way drawn to one another.

  “Silly,” I let the curtains fall together as I sat on the bed and laced my boots. Sucking at my teeth as I worked the laces though the stiff leather eyelets, I thought about the emissary, how it had shook its head at Seffi after we crashed through the factory wall. “She was about to beat me,” I mused. “And you stopped her.” I twisted on the bed and peeked out at the emissary from beneath a corner of the curtain. The cross-hatched gaze of its head lingered over my window. I let the curtain fall once more. “No time for this now.” I stood up. “Breakfast, I think.” I passed a hand over my belly as it rumbled, opened the bedroom door and made my way to the kitchen. I would deal with the emissary later.

  I hesitated outside the kitchen door as the scraping and rapping of knives and forks on Beatrice's porcelain service stopped. I pushed open the door. Ignoring me, the men left the table and crowded the window. Seffi caught my eye as she got up from the bench and joined the men.

  “It's him,” Reginald turned away from the window and nodded at Beatrice. “He's come all the way from Fourpenny.”

  “Aye,” Beatrice gripped the apron tied around her waist. “He'll have come up the Kyle, past Bonar Bridge.”

  “Through the night, by the looks of it,” Reginald smoothed his hand over his beard. He looked at me. “He's here for you then?”

  “Who?” I took a step towards the window.

  “Seamus Macfarlane,” Beatrice stopped me before I reached the window. “Come, laddie. You'd best be eating something. There'll be plenty of time to gawp at Macfarlane later. These are Abigail’s sausages, though the poor lass was no strong enough to stay the morning. She did so want to meet you. Eat now, before it gets cold.” Guiding me to a seat on the bench, she crossed to the stove and checked to see it was still warm. “Reginald,” she opened the griddle and set a greasy pan on the flame. “How many has he got with him?”

  “Just four men, but a pack and a half of hounds.”

  “Aye, and he always has one of them mad brutes at the table.” Beatrice dipped a crust of bread into the fat prickling in the base of the pan. “He spoils that dog,” she looked up as Seffi picked up another pan and a handful of eggs from the basket on the floor. “Treasures that bloody hound more than anything else in the world.”

  “He does?” Seffi cracked four eggs into the pan.

  “Aye,” Beatrice flipped the crust in the fat. “It's his one distraction.” She scooped up the fried crust with a spatula, dumped it onto a plate and set the plate on the floor. “The dog that chewed on that bitch's nostril, well,” Beatrice took the pan of eggs from Seffi's hand, shuffling the egg white off the yolk. She put the pan down and took Seffi's hand. “It wasn't enough to shoot the dog. No,” she shook her head. “He had to punish it first.”

  I looked up as Beatrice took a long breath to compose herself. The eggs spat in the pan. The men retreated from the window and slipped out of the kitchen.

  “I won't forget what he did to that poor animal. Right here, in our stables,” she wiped a tear from her cheek. “It was before Master Whistlefish's time, of course. But everyone remembers it.” Patting Seffi's hand, Beatrice let go and moved away from the stove. Lifting a tea towel from a bowl, she pulled out a length of linked sausage. She turned to me and smiled. “Finish your breakfast quick, lad. You won't want to be here when he takes his breakfast. The Lord knows, I don't.”

  Seffi sat next to me as I finished eating. Beatrice turned Macfarlane's saus
age and eggs in the pan on the stove, the fat spat and sizzled as she worked.

  “What do you think, Seffi?” I reached for the mug of tea cooling on the table in front of me.

  She looked up as Beatrice heaped sausages onto a plate by the side of the stove. She turned to look me in the eye. The brief touch of her fingers on my arm distracted me for a moment. She was usually so rough. “We are going to have to be careful, Karl. And...” she glanced up at the window.

  “And?”

  “And,” Seffi bit her bottom lip, “I think it is time you introduced me to your machine.”

  “The emissary.”

  “Yes,” Seffi nodded. “I need to know exactly what it can do, what I can expect of it.”

  “I can do that.” I sipped at the tea and grimaced.

  “Yes,” Seffi smiled. She stood up. “Finish your breakfast, Karl. We have work to do.”

  Chapter 4

  There was quite a crowd around the emissary by the time we walked out into the courtyard. Macfarlane's hounds were resting in a pen beside the stables, licking their chops and lazing about after their meal. I tapped Seffi on the arm and pointed at them.

  “They don't seem very interested in the emissary. Maybe they can't smell him?”

  “They won't need to,” Seffi slowed as we approached Whistlefish and the estate staff crowding the emissary. “It is us they will be tracking, Karl.”

  “Oh, I hadn't thought of that.” I caught the eye of one of the hounds as it sniffed the air. I might have thought it handsome if it wasn't for the scars and scabs pitting and scoring its fur. Hurrying after Seffi, I put the thought of the hound from my mind as Whistlefish greeted me, that same fire of the previous night dancing in his eyes.

  “Mr. Finsch,” Whistlefish gripped my shoulder and led me through his staff to stand at the feet of the emissary. “This machine is a wonder. I am very impressed.”

  “Thank you, but I had nothing to do with the emissary’s design or construction.”