by John Marco
"He can try," said Nina.
She heard his footfalls leave the room and disappear down the hallway. Stepping out onto the balcony, she saw the ravens down below and wondered absently what would happen to Grath and his men.
Grath was furious as he left the room, furious and a little daunted at the prospect of having to walk through the ravens unescorted. The whole day had been wasted with that spoiled bitch, and now he had to explain this, somehow, to her father. He swore that he wouldn't be swindled by the old man. If Enli tried to hold back payment, he would cut his heart out.
"Bitch," he spat as he descended the stairs. Hotheaded. Like her father. Let her stay here and rot with the corpses.
When Grath reached the hall leading to the doors he paused, considering things. He stroked his chin nervously. He pulled his sword halfway from its scabbard. What to do? The weapon might frighten the bloody beasts. It wasn't wise to entice them. Grath let the sword slip back down.
"Damn it!" he cursed, unsure of himself. They had let him pass once, when he'd fought at the castle, but things had been different then. Now he was horribly outnumbered. He wondered how his men in the woods were faring.
"You won't beat me, girl," he vowed, going to the doors and slowly pulling them open. Wind rushed in and struck his face. He licked his lips and peered outside. The ravens were there, just as he'd left them, studding the fences and perched in the trees. Across the yard, Grath could see his men looking worried. He took a small step outside, gingerly avoiding the dead man in the threshold, and waved to them. The signal caught their attention and they waved in return, eager to be on their way.
Grath took a breath to steady himself. The ravens looked at him without interest. Feeling confident, Grath moved out among them. They parted like a tide as he strode through.
"You're not so tough, eh?" he whispered to the birds. "Black bastards."
A raven at his feet ruffled its feathers, and that was all. Grath wanted to kick it. They were disgusting creatures, the product of a warped mind. Grath didn't wonder why Enli wanted his brother dead. He must have been a sick man indeed to conceive of such nightmares. The mercenary scanned the yard as he walked. There were so many of them, yet they hardly seemed a threat at all. He began to wonder if all the tales he'd heard were only stories told by Eneas to frighten people.
Halfway to his men, Grath noticed a particular bird gnawing on the finger of a dead soldier. His hand was sprawled open on the ground and the raven stood inside the palm, pecking wildly at a ring around the man's finger. A giant ruby caught the light, and Grath's attention. The raven was trying to free the ring. It had worked most of the flesh loose and was chewing intensely at the bone, anxious for the shiny bauble. Slowly, Grath approached the bird. He remembered something his father had told him once, about how ravens and crows sometimes collected shiny things and brought them to their nests. Grath didn't know why, but nothing was shinier than the ruby ring. It was worth a fortune, no doubt.
Carefully, so carefully that the snow didn't crunch beneath his boots, Grath made his way to the dead man and the raven pecking furiously at his finger. He stopped breathing as he drifted over the bird, letting his shadow fall lightly across it. Still the bird ignored him. It kept up at the impossible task of breaking the bone, taking the finger in its beak and trying to crack it like a nutshell. Grath flicked his hands at the bird, hoping to frighten it just enough to move it away.
"Shoo," he said softly. "Go. Go!"
The raven looked up at him, annoyed, its eyes blazing with black intelligence. The gaze infuriated Grath, who flicked at the thing forcefully.
"Away!" he growled. "Move!"
Finally angry, he dislodged the bird from the corpse with his boot, nudging it away. The bird bit at his foot, and when Grath tried to take the ring, the beast came forward, snapping at his hand. Without thinking, Grath's fist snapped out and batted the bird away. Quickly he freed the ring, then stood up and admired it in the dim light.
"My God," he said, turning it so every facet gleamed. "Beautiful."
A sudden explosion of feathers filled his vision. Grath screamed with an awful pain. The raven had flown up into his face, driving its talons into his cheeks and nose and tearing open the skin. Grath's arms flailed, trying to dislodge the bird, but its claws only dug deeper. With both hands he clamped down on the raven, pulling it free even as its talons sliced open his nostrils.
"Bitch!" screamed Grath. Blood gushed from his nose. The raven flew from his grasp, attacking anew. Grath put up his arms to protect himself, running blindly through the maze of birds, which suddenly rose up in a chorus of cries.
In a moment, they were all on him.
A thousand frenzied avians dug their talons deep, dragging him backward even as he tried to run for cover. He heard his garments tear, saw his men look on in horror as a flock of ravens came for them, too. Grath's world disappeared in a cloak of sable, as bit by bit the flesh was torn from his bones.
Up on her balcony, Nina watched in horror as the birds engulfed Grath and his men. There was an eruption of sound, a shrieking frenzy that tore open the sky. Over it, almost buried in raven sounds, were the gurgling cries of Grath, being dragged backward by a hundred insane ravens. The horses bolted, stranding the men. Grath's mercenaries began to scream. Nina stood frozen, watching it all in disbelief, and then at last had the good sense to run from the balcony, locking the doors.
Then she dashed down the stairs as fast as she could and began shuttering every window in the palace.
TWENTY-TWO
The Toymaker
High Street was one of the Black City's busiest thoroughfares. It was wide and tall and in the best section of the old city, near the apartments of the princely lords and just across the river from the Cathedral of the Martyrs. On summer evenings, when the sun threw long shadows across the city, High Street teemed with vendors and merchants; caterwauling slave traders peddling their captured flesh, travelling hunters with trussed-up game birds, beggars and thieves and harlots and prostitutes, and, amazingly, the occasional toy shop. There was money in this part of Nar, looted from a thousand successful campaigns, and the well-heeled of the city liked to spoil their greedy offspring. Naren women walked along High Street with their broods of arrogant children trailing out behind them, peering into the dressed-up windows of the shops. The bakery was most popular. It stood in the center of High Street near a money-changing shop, and was frequented by the Archbishop of Nar himself, a connoisseur of confections. The bakery's aroma was one of High Street's great treats, a welcome respite from the choking gases of the war labs. Children came just to stare in the bakery's window and coax a few cookies from the proprietor and his wife, and when they left, full of fresh-baked treats, they always noticed the other attraction of the street--the Piper's toy shop.
Besides the bakery, the toy shop was the real wonder of High Street. It had been in business for nearly forty years, and very few of the city's lords could recall a time without it. They were grown now, but each could still remember a special toy from the Piper's factory, some special doll they had dragged around until frayed, or perhaps a mechanical boat that skimmed across the water when wound. Made with typical Naren ingenuity, the toys in the Piper's shop were something unique, something worth making a long trip to see and purchase. The Piper was renowned in the Empire, a master toymaker who had studied with the craftsmen of Vosk before coming south and setting up his shop. He was legendary and beloved in the Black City, and his toy shop, a meager-looking storefront sandwiched between a candlemaker and a blacksmith, was frequently crowded with children and curious adults seeking guilty pleasures. But it was the toy shop's window that drew the most accolades.
Made of tall rectangles of glass, the window showed off the best of the Piper's creations. Here was a circus that could be viewed from the street, free of charge. There were toy soldiers with silver guns and brass cannons, and dolls with luxurious hair and exquisite dresses, their feet capped with meticulously made shoes, so t
iny one wondered if human hands had crafted them. There were stuffed animals with real fur; stringed instruments of polished wood; and fabric-covered flying machines that actually glided through the air, suspended from the ceiling by translucent wire. Grand vessels floated in basins of water, and ships in bottles vexed young minds with the impossibility of their construction. A three-foot wooden model of an elf played on a flute, its animated fingers clicking with mechanical perfection as it blew out its endless tune. The elf's name was Darvin, and every child in the city knew his name. Darvin and his pipes were the symbol of the Piper's toy shop, as much a fixture of the city as the Black Palace or the Cathedral of the Martyrs. Each morning, when the Piper opened his toy shop, Darvin played the opening song, a long and complicated melody that had taken the toymaker nearly a year to set into the doll's clockworks. Like all the Piper's creations, Darvin had astonished the citizens of Nar, a difficult accomplishment for a city that had birthed the war labs.
But although the Piper was famous for his mechanical wonders, there was one particular skill that brought eager girls to his toy shop. He was, without question, the Empire's peerless maker of dollhouses. He could build anything, no matter how complex, no matter how big or small, and delight the most jaded Naren child. His replicas of the Black Palace were celebrated, and his skill at minutiae was unmatched by any scientist or engineer. Because he was so proud of his ability with dollhouses, the Piper had placed several in his shop window. Among them was an exquisite white home with a dozen gables and a thousand real wood shingles, each one lovingly carved from maple and stained with a glowing pink varnish. The house had three levels, working doors on golden hinges, and shiny glass windows that opened onto terraced balconies. The house was named Belinda, after the Piper's long dead wife, and she was captivating, like all the toys in the toymaker's window. The Piper knew this, and so he was proud of his work. He didn't build toys, he used to say. He built smiles.
The Piper was nearly sixty now. His hands ached with arthritis when it rained, but he still rose early every morning and toiled in his workshop until late into the evening. His real name was Redric Bobs, but few people ever called him that. In his early days, before he'd discovered his love for toymaking, he had discovered an affinity for music, and was always found with a flute to his lips. An unaccomplished musician, the name had nevertheless stuck with him, and Redric Bobs had never really broken his musical habit. He still played the flute--but only on very rare occasions, and never for the pleasure of others. He had played for his wife Belinda, but she was dead now. The Piper was alone.
He had no children, and he had no family to speak of, for he had left them all behind years ago to come to the Black City and ply his new trade. His wife, Belinda, had died of a cancer fifteen years past, her womb barren, her dreams of a family unfulfilled. But she had loved her husband dearly and they had been happy, mostly, except for the emptiness of their home atop the toy shop, the one that Redric Bobs had built himself in anticipation of a brood of babies. Belinda Bobs and her husband had tried for years to conceive a child, had prayed mightily to Heaven for the great gift of life, but God had decided to ignore them. After ten years of trying, they had finally gone to the orphanage of the great cathedral, sure that the priests would not turn down so loving a couple. But just as God in Heaven was against them, so were his minions on earth.
"Too poor," they had told them. This was in the earlier days before the Piper's prowess was acknowledged. And later, when they had the money to care for children, the priests of the orphanage had slammed the doors with a different chant.
"Too old."
Belinda Bobs had been heartbroken. Redric Bobs' heart had hardened. A year later, Belinda battled cancer for the first time. It was the start of a hellish decade for the couple, one that eventually ate her alive. It was why the Piper rarely smiled now, why he shut himself off in his toy shop, hidden even from the eyes of eager children. It was why he was hard at work this very evening.
Alone in his shuttered workshop at the back of his store, Redric Bobs expertly balanced a bead of glue onto the needle-thin strut of a wooden tower. The tiny component was just one of a thousand like it, part of a complex myriad of criss-crossing joints making up the steeple of his giant model. The Cathedral of the Martyrs had presented the toymaker with some interesting challenges, not the least of which was its enormous tower of copper and iron. It needed to be perfect, sturdy, and built exactly to scale--and though Redric Bobs had no formal education in engineering, he supposed he shared some empathy with the humans who had designed the cathedral so many years ago. With a steady hand, the Piper dropped the strut into place and gave it a gentle press. Glue oozed slowly out. With his other hand he worked a piece of cloth, wiping the excess away. Satisfied, he stepped back to view his handiwork.
The steeple was half done, at last. Another week of work and it would be complete. Then he would start on the main structure. He grimaced, unsure if he would meet the count's aggressive schedule. Work like his required patience and time above all else, and Biagio wasn't giving him either. Worse, the Feast of Eestrii was only weeks away. The Piper clasped his hands together and studied his meticulous model. It was beautiful; it seemed a shame to destroy it.
"Almost time, Belinda, my love," he whispered. He was sure that Belinda watched over him still. She had promised on her deathbed never to leave him.
All the materials he needed were laid out before him. Great slabs of wood, tiny metal fasteners and bolts, golden wire and spools of thread, colored glass and a hundred pigments of paint, all strewn along his sawdust-covered floor. His tools hung from hooks along the walls, some as big as his arm, others so small they were difficult to see. His miniature work often required miniature tools, and these he kept in a box on his workbench and guarded jealously, for they were very rare and had come with him from Vosk decades ago. He had screwdrivers and little hammers, pliers and pins and sharp needles that could make an undetectable hole. They were no more than scraps of iron, but to the Piper they were precious. They gave his life meaning and dimension. And the thing he was constructing now, perhaps the greatest challenge of his career, would make him famous forever.
Or infamous, thought Redric Bobs with a frown. He really wasn't sure yet.
The workshop was cold. Piper felt his fingers tingle, rebelling against the chill. He went to his black iron stove and picked a few nuggets of coal from the bucket, depositing them into the fire box with a pair of long tongs. Shutting the stove door, he put his hands up to the hot metal to warm them. Winter was coming, and he never liked the winter. It was one of the reasons he had moved south. The Black City, with its tall spires and taller tales, had drawn him across the continent. That had been over forty-five years ago. When he had arrived, he had seen the Black Palace on its monolithic perch, beckoning travellers from miles away. The sight of it had forever changed him, as had all the city's marvels. But nothing was more beautiful than the Cathedral of the Martyrs. Though the Black Palace was taller and more garish, the cathedral was the city's true jewel, the only thing in Nar that could still bring a tear to the old man's eyes. Over the years, he had tried many times to capture the cathedral's beauty in a model, but he had always failed. She was too complicated, too ornate. But time and hatred had sharpened the toymaker's skills, and he was ready at last to construct his masterpiece. As he warmed his frozen fingers his eyes flicked toward the miniature cathedral. The Piper smiled.
A bell jingled insistently in the distance. Piper pulled back his hands, wondering who would disturb him so late. Cautiously he crossed his workroom and stood in the threshold of his toy shop, clinging to the shadows as he spied the door. Shades were drawn over the door's glass, but Redric Bobs could see a silhouette against the fabric, cast there by the gas street lights. The figure was very small, no taller than a child.
A beggar, the Piper supposed. They were always bothering him to play with the toys in his window. He started toward the door, then heard a horse whinny. The sound startled him. The do
orbell jangled again as the figure impatiently yanked the chain. Past Darvin and the other toys in his window, Redric Bobs saw a big brown wagon in the street outside his shop. Four stout men leaned against it, waiting for him to answer. The tiny figure at his threshold rang the bell one more time, then started pounding on the door.
"Piper Bobs," came an unknown voice. "Open up."
The voice was small and high, like a child's voice, but stronger. Piper puzzled over it, unsure what to do. He was expecting Biagio's agents, but hadn't guessed they would come so late at night or in such force. A fearful tremor made his steady hands shake.
"I'm coming," he called, rushing to the door. Quickly he undid the bolts, then cracked the door open. Night rushed in on a cold breeze. Out on his stoop, a tiny figure dressed in black looked up at him with preternatural eyes. From the lines on his face he looked like a man, but he was far shorter, almost dwarf-sized. There was no smile on his face, only an insistent look that blazed in his blue, hypnotic stare.
"Minister Bovadin! You?"
"Open the door, Bobs," said the midget tersely. "We have something for you."
Piper opened the door and stuck his head outside to better see the wagon. On its bed was a giant wooden crate. The men leaning against the conveyance looked over at him without regard, their expressions unreadable. Piper groaned at the size of the delivery.
"Is that it?" he asked incredulously.
The midget nodded. "That's it."
"All of that? I mean, it's so big!"
Nar's Minister of Science squeezed past the toy-maker's legs and into the shop. "Don't worry. Most of it is wooden supports to keep the device stable. The thing itself isn't much bigger than me." His weird eyes surveyed the store. "We have to get it inside quickly. Where can we put it?"
"In my workshop," the Piper replied. "In the back. Will you help me unpack it?"
"Of course. I can't just leave it with you, now can I?"
