Crimson Clockwork Pt. 02/03

"Answers," I said, my voice crisp and cold. "Now."

"You seem to be a clever woman so I'm almost certain you've already done some investigating of your own. Enlighten me first."

"No," I said, withdrawing the lorkaa piece from my purse and dropping it into his lap. "You clearly knew that something was going on."

He brushed his fingers over the game piece.

"Your big friend asked 'Is it them?' the moment the attack began," I continued, keeping my voice level and icy. "Which means that you likely knew there was the possibility of an attack. And if you knew that, then you surely have some notion of who is responsible."

"We didn't know there was going to be an attack," he said, his eyes growing somber. "We were there to investigate and had nothing to do with what happened."

"That is the spark of an answer, but not the one I truly need. Go on."

He tossed the piece up and down as we spoke.

"First off, we can start with names. I'm Istvan."

"I am Lyneth. Though you likely knew that."

After a deep breath, he proceeded with his tale.

"Matyar-the one whose tongue you enjoyed-met me during the war."

Sorrow gripped my heart as I recalled his unusual sacrifice, holding off those machines so I could escape.

"We were in the same artillery unit. That's how we met Cymkor, that big fellow you met at the Rite. He was a local auxiliary, from one of the mainlander cities siding with us."

I glanced around, seeing no sign of him. Had he also fallen during the raid on the manor?

"Months and months of war. The enemy grew quite adept at shooting down the balloons we used to power the storm-cannons, so we were useless as an artillery unit. We were pressed into infantry duty. Holding the line, raiding trenches. Ugly work."

I swallowed. My own brother had died during the course of that sort of 'ugly work.' Blinking away tears, I stared at the wretched swan-machines skimming across the muddy pond.

"With how ugly things were, we started to seek...distractions. Anything to keep us sane in the trenches. Word got around that some lads the next unit over followed one of the old cults, so we got involved too. Silly, ridiculous little rituals. Nothing as grand as the Rite of the Last Dusk but it gave us a semblance of meaning. A unity we hadn't found before. An escape.

"And then someone started hunting us. Picking off the little cells of believers within the ranks. Strange murders in the night. Aerial bombardments from friendly forces would fall on bunkers manned by believers, and they'd blame it on the weather or poor signaling. Units with large contingents of the faithful would be ordered to undertake suicidal assaults."

Istvan took a slow, shuddering breath.

"So when the war ended, we took up the hunt and tried to track down whoever it was that was hunting the old cults. We ingratiated ourselves with the local chapter of the Crimson Night, trying to find out if they had anything to do with it or knew anything. That event we attended was just a way to get closer to the priests and other believers, to see if they knew anything."

I said nothing as I reeled beneath the onslaught of those revelations. Someone was waging a shadowy crusade against the old, forbidden faiths. A crusade that had nearly gotten me killed.

"And we still don't know who exactly is behind it," he continued. "Another cult? Secular fanatics who want to ensure the old ways stay dead? Some rogue faction of the justicars?"

I unfurled the papers my father had handed me.

"And now it's my turn to offer answers," I murmured. "I believe I've found where the attackers acquired those machines. There was to be an auction of surplus naval supplies, but a fire broke out at the warehouse where those specific machines were kept. Either someone made an off-the-books purchase and set a fire to cover it up or stole the machines under the guise of the inferno."

"We find the buyers or the thieves, and we find the culprits."

"Precisely."

He snatched the papers from my grasp.

"We'll take it from here. Thank you, Lyneth."

As he rose to his feet, I scowled and grabbed his wrist.

"By the dead gods, you don't get to just walk off like that. Why go through all that trouble of arranging this meeting?"

"Because I knew you were clever and rich, and that you would have found something useful." He nodded at the paper. "Seems I was right."

"I can help. My family's resources are vast. I have access to weapons and tools you might not otherwise have; you saw what my little machines did during the attack."

His eyes flitted down towards my hand, but he did not twist out of my grasp just yet.

"Are you even a true believer? I know for many in the upper crust of Raveth society, the ceremonies are little more than games and illicit diversions. Not expressions of true faith."

"What does it matter? They nearly killed me.That is what matters."

"Rest assured that vengeance will be meted out without you."

"She has a point," a voice rumbled from behind me. "We could use the extra help."

Flinching, I reached for my amulet to grab the hidden razorfly, only to relax at the sight of Cymkor's brawny frame emerging from the trees just behind the benches. He wore a simple, well-fitted suit, with a frayed bowler hat tucked under his arm.

"Damned stealthy for such a brute," I grumbled, tucking my amulet away.

"We can't let more people get involved," Istvan hissed.

"We're down a man, Istvan. And she has the resources. She likely knows parts of the city better than we do."

"We can't trust her."

"Your friend told me to trustyou, though" I said softly. "Right before he pushed me over the cliff's edge to get me to safety, he told me to trust you if you found me."

"Always a damned big hero, that one," Istvan said with a snort.

"I'm sorry about your friend," I murmured. "Losing someone like that..."

"We haven't lost him," Istvan said. "Not yet. We saw the machines dragging the survivors away into the woods. If they'd wanted them dead, they'd have just killed them on the spot. In all likelihood, he and the others are still alive."

He murmured something under his breath.

"Istvan," the bigger man growled. "Remember Urvport? We needed help then and didn't ask for it, and we nearly got ourselves killed as a result. Let's not make the same mistake."

"Gods' graves," Istvan cursed. "Fine. You can help."

"Excellent," I said, rising smoothly to my feet. "Our first stop should be the auctioneer who had those naval drones. We'll need to confirm if they were stolen or sold illegally."

"Straight to business," Cymkor said with a wide grin. "Good."

I returned his smile, admiring his figure and his unmasked face.

"Before we get to that, though, who among you gave the message to those boys at the transit tower? They'd been told to look out for 'pretty lady with dark blue eyes as deep as the ocean, and hair that ripples like the night.'"

Istvan clicked his tongue.

"The little brats got it wrong. It was a 'beautiful woman with blue eyes that beckon like the ocean, and hair that ripples like the darkest night.'" He winked. "And that was from me."

Snorting, I gave his arm a playful swat, my amusement serving as a temporary distraction from the grim task before us.

**

We started by scoping out the auction house, where a bit of flattery and flirtation secured me the name of the man who'd organized the sale of those machines. From there, we used my father's contacts at the city magistrate's office to get an address for the auctioneer.

Things took a decidedly more direct turn after that. While I waited with Istvan in the street in front of the auctioneer's townhouse, Cymkor vanished down an alley.

A few minutes later, a glass window above us shattered. I whirled, my eyes ablaze, while Istvan calmly looked up and down the street, keeping watch.

A shout echoed from the broken window, followed by a wail of protest.

"Gods' graves, is Cymkor beating answers out of him?"

"Not exactly. Cymkor has a unique strategy when trying to get answers out of posh people. He just beats the hell out of their finest, fanciest possessions until he gets what he wants."

Istvan crossed the street and knelt within the pile of broken glass, and picked up a thick tome that had been flung through the window.

"It seems that this auctioneer is a collector of antique books and Cymkor is doing a bit of destructive redecorating." He tossed the book down. "We should get off the street though, just in case."

Though I scowled, I felt no sympathy at all for that auctioneer if he'd been funneling weapons to murderers and kidnappers.

We scampered across the street to another shadowy alley. Cymkor emerged from another alley a few minutes later, a satisfied grin on his face.

"You could have been a bit moresubtle about it," I grumbled, leading us away from the ransacked townhouse.

"For Cymkor, thatwas subtle," Istvan said with a chuckle. "What did you learn?"

"Lyneth's suspicions about the fire being a coverup for a secret sale were correct. The buyer offered the auctioneer a private fee. No cut to the original sellers or anyone else. Off the books completely, and they set the fire so the sellers could write the machines off as a loss."

"And who was the buyer?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"He didn't know. It was a typical underworld deal, in an alley behind a tavern down in Dockside. Buyer was masked and cowled, so the auctioneer never saw his face. But he paid in platinum bars: half up front, half upon delivery of the machines."

Istvan sighed and shook his head.

"So all that ruckus and shattered glass for nothing."

"Not entirely. The buyer brought muscle with him. A dozen hired goons. I jogged his memory by threatening to smash one of his fancy glass bookcases. Some of the thugs had tattoos of anchors upon their hands and necks. Could be a gang of navy veterans, maybe. A possible lead."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "Not navy veterans. The Anchor Hounds: a street gang that runs Dockside."

"I imagined you were too posh to know much about street gangs," Istvan said with a crooked grin.

"The Vaspars weren'talways posh. My father spent time in Dockside and had to pay protection money to those bastards so they didn't burn his shop down."

"No need for subtlety dealing with thugs like that," Cymkor said, cracking his knuckles. "Just point us to their favorite tavern and we'll take care of the rest."

"Let us not be too hasty with violence yet again," I said. "We already have enough enemies. Angering one of the most powerful street gangs in Raveth is not a path we want to take. Better to be discreet. Subtle."

**

Later that evening we headed down to Dockside, passing a few coins to some vagrants to find the preferred drinking spot of the Anchor Hounds. A withered old beggar pointed us in the direction of a tavern called the Sinking Lady.

Built from the detritus of an old coal-hauler, the tavern sat upon a hill overlooking the ink-processing facilities and warehouses near the docks. The stench from the sea was so intense that I attempted to ward it off by dabbing perfume underneath my nostrils. My companions paid the stench little mind, likely having grown desensitized to such horrific smells during their time in the trenches.

As we stepped inside, my mind raced with how best to approach the situation.

In a corner, an automaton played the piano, tapping out a rowdy and jaunty tune that was quite off-key. A few dozen drunks danced in the middle of the tavern. Dockworkers and sailors leaned against the bar.

Rough men with anchor tattoos on their hands and necks sat in a corner booth, playing a game of dice.

Heads swiveled to regard us, with most of the attention paid to my fine dress and Cymkor's brawny frame.

"She just might be one of the fanciest whores ever to grace this place," one of the Anchor Hounds called out, his bright eyes affixed upon me.

Laughter rose throughout the tavern. Glaring, Cymkor took a few lumbering steps forward.

"I cracked plenty of skulls during the war, in the name of victory and liberation. But I'd be all too happy to crack a few skulls in the name of teaching you some fucking manners."

The automaton continued to pound away at the keys. Stools scraped against the floor as drunks rose from their seats to scramble away. The Anchor Hounds glowered and rose, drawing batons from beneath their ragged coats.

"Stop!" I barked, rushing forward and stepping between Cymkor and the thugs. "My associate here just thinks of himself as a bit of a minstrel. He was making a cruel and unnecessary joke." I tapped Cymkor in the chest. "Apologize."

"They called you a whore," he said, still glaring at the gangsters.

"And you are very brave and noble for standing up for me," I said with a strained smile. "But we came here for answers. Not for chivalric brawls."

I turned my smile back to the thugs, who still clutched their batons.

"Gentlemen, I apologize for his meager attempts at humor. By way of recompense, I'll pay for the next round, and I'll also repair your out-of-tune automaton. By the sound of it, the magnetic matrix needs a reset, hence the rubbish music it's been playing. I daresay you'd enjoy your dice and drinks more if the music weren't so wretched."

"Two rounds," one of the Hounds growled.

"Of course," I said, beaming. "Two rounds."

I handed my purse over to Istvan so he could buy the drinks, and bade Cymkor to follow me over to the automaton. He watched my back while I popped open the casing of the machine. In short order I cleared away the gunk surrounding the clockwork mechanisms, and reset the magnetic matrix. It would likely require a full repair or replacement within a few months, but at least the dreadful music had stopped.

Once I rebooted the machine, the automated hands pounded at the keys once more, this time perfectly in-tune.

"Gods' graves," the bartender said with a bright smile. "That thing's been playing that rubbish so long I'd almost forgotten what a decent song sounded like."

"There," I said, wiping my hands free of oil and smiling at the Hounds. "Now can we discuss business?"

After a brief glare at Cymkor, the thugs nodded, and I pulled up a chair beside their booth.

"I represent certain parties who are interested in acquiring automatons for naval use," I said.

Their eyes lit up in recognition and interest.

"Given that your organization is the true authority down here in Dockside, I wanted to start with you. Not only to gain your approval for any transaction done in your territory, but also to make arrangements for a possible finder's fee if you can help arrange the deal."

"Popular thing to buy these days," said a wiry fellow who was missing his left eye. He had surprisingly nice teeth for a dockside thug.

"So I've heard. It seems another party has been nabbing up every spare machine that goes on sale, and my client is playing catchup."

"We may or may not have a lead on such items. I can make no promises," the one-eyed man said. "But I can make inquiries."

"That is all that I ask," I said with a warm smile. "I can come back tomorrow evening to see if your inquiries have borne fruit."

"Best make it two evenings. Dockside is a big place."

"Of course. Two evenings."

I rose smoothly from my chair and marched over to the bar, where I found Istvan swapping war stories with some of the sailors. After placing a hand on his shoulder, I murmured into his ear.

"I wager the Hounds will send a messenger from here to check on those machines. Think you can tail them?"

He gave a slow nod and ordered another drink. After downing it, he made a show of swaying a little, then wiped at his mouth.

"By the dead gods, it's been too long since I've had proper sailor's ale. Need some fresh air."

The sailors laughed and jeered as he stumbled out of the tavern, and Cymkor took Istvan's place at the bar.

"Sorry about that," he said, his voice low and soft. "Call it instinct."

"It's all right," I said, patting his hand. "In another context, I'd have gladly stepped back and let you do your brutal work. But tonight required a softer touch."

He ground his teeth.

"I'm always raring for a fight. Even more than usual after what happened. Especially since I couldn't stop it. So every chance that arises to come to blows..." Cymkor snorted. "Even if they'd have just looked at you funny instead of outright insulting you, I'd have probably handled it the same way."

"I understand." I patted his hand again. "But if you need to let off some steam, there are plenty of underground boxing rings here in Dockside."

"That's not the only sort of outlet, though," he said, his bright blue eyes drifting from his drink to meet my gaze.

I swallowed, recalling how hungry those eyes had been back at the manor, and how those brutish hands had clasped my hips.

"Are you certain that's wise?"

"Nothing about what we're doing is wise, Lyneth." Cymkor downed his drink and turned his scarred hand over, gently taking hold of mine.

I shivered at how small and delicate I felt within his grasp, at the memories of how that hand had gripped the back of my neck as he'd spilled himself inside me.

"Once we know more, perhaps we can relax a bit," I murmured, not wanting to run off for a back-alley fuck while Istvan was out there trailing the Hounds' messenger.

"Of course."

I took a seat beside him and ordered a cup of wine, though I was certain it would be rubbish compared to what I was used to.

"You handled yourself quite well with those wretches," Cymkor said with a nod at the corner booth.

"Believe it or not, it's not my first time dealing with gangsters. Even the nicer district where I have my workshop is plagued by organized crime. The thugs there are a bit more...polite and discreet, of course, but I have had to negotiate protection payments on behalf of some of my suppliers. And I've sat alongside my father during some of his own delicate negotiations with the larger crime syndicates."

I took a slow sip of the wine, finding it to be not quite as dreadful as I'd feared.

"And of course, dealing with the upper echelons of Ravethi society is really just like dealing with another sort of gangster. What is a guild or a corporation but a gang with a bit more class and a bit more money? In truth, street gangs like the Anchor Hounds probably haveless blood on their hands compared to some businesses."

"Like your father's?"

"No, he never got into the arms trade. Industrial and fishing applications only."

"A principled man."

"In some ways, yes," I said with a soft laugh. "But the arms business comes with more red tape. Every arms factory and munitions workshop must have a government overseer to monitor production. Father didn't want that. And there was still plenty of money to be made in other industries."

Istvan returned, still playing up his drunkenness by swaying a little.

"Tailed their errand boy," he murmured under his breath. "Let's go."

Cymkor and I downed our drinks and we took Istvan by the shoulders, steadying him on the way out. One of the Anchor Hounds whistled and winked at me, earning a glare from Cymkor.

Once we were some distance down the moonlit street, Istvan dropped the ruse.

"Their messenger went to a ship. A kraken-hunter, by the looks of it. Called theErrant Storm. Heavily guarded. A few automatons like the ones from the raid. Human guards, too. At least ten."

"It's a bit brazen, isn't it, to be holding prisoners right there in the middle of the docks?" Cymkor asked.

"Whoever the kidnappers are, they've already made friends with the Anchor Hounds, who are the true power in Dockside," I said. "With the Hounds on their side, they can do pretty much whatever they please down here. With a few bribes to the local justicars...that ship is practically invisible in the eyes of the law."