Crimson Clockwork Pt. 02/03

I crossed the room on shaky legs and patted Cymkor on the cheek, my mind racing with thoughts of myself undergoing such a challenge.

"Once we free Matyar, we'll see if I can live up to that dancer's example."

He leaned into my touch, kissing my fingers.

"Aye. We will."

After buttoning up my dress I smoothed out the fabric, grateful for the fact that I had an oversized coat to cover up the mess they'd made of my clothing.

"I'll have to return home, to put my parents' mind at ease. Plenty of space for you to sleep here, though a workshop doesn't exactly come well-furnished."

"We've slept in worse places," Istvan said. "We'll make do."

After promising to make arrangements to have cots and bedrolls delivered eventually, I gave them each a kiss on the cheek and made my way home.

**

If my parents suspected that I was continuing the investigation, they gave no sign of it when I returned. After enjoying my deepest slumber since the attack on the manor, I stopped at the market for a few supplies, and returned to the workshop.

They were already hard at work, oiling and cleaning their weapons.

After setting down my box of supplies, I noticed Istvan fiddling with the cylinder of the revolver, which didn't quite close all the way.

"Damned standard-issue rubbish," he grumbled. "Every single one of these Restov models has a busted cylinder like that."

"Allow me," I said, taking the weapon. I popped open the cylinder, inspecting the weapon and noticing a slight imperfection in the frame. With a metal file I scraped away a bit of the metal and tested the cylinder once again.

It snapped shut, easy and clean.

"You know your weapons," Istvan said, grinning as he took his weapon back.

"I know tools and machines. And weapons are just another tool." Stepping back, I wagged a finger at my lovers. "Now I will have a lot of work to do in order to prepare our little spy device. So no distractions. No flirting, no teasing, no sharing bawdy tales about dancers in Urvport."

"No worries there," Cymor said. "We finished all of our bawdy talk over tea this morning, when we talked about how much fun we had fucking you last night."

I flashed him a playful glare and snatched up the last of my supplies, before heading over to my bench on the far side of the workshop.

Given the intensity of my work, I barely even noticed Cymkor leaving to fetch lunch. When he returned, I almost swooned at the smell of freshly baked bread and roasted swordfish.

"Gods' graves, how did you know that's what I wanted?" I said, groaning at the smell.

"I didn't," Cymkor asked, laughing as he set the swordfish sandwich upon the bench, complete with a cup filled with fried dough, sprinkled with spices and cheese: a classic Ravethi street meal.

"I'm surprised a posh woman like you even knows what this sort of stuff tastes like," Istvan said, taking a bite of his own.

"My father practically grew up on these meals down in Dockside. When he became rich, he hired the best street chefs from the docks to keep making their special recipes, just for us. He said it didn't taste quite as good, though. Something about the smog and the pollution of the docks makes the bread better, according to him."

"Aye, that makes sense," Cymkor said, nodding thoughtfully after a big bite. "During the war, I found that the stew always tasted better when it was made in the trenches. Something about the smoke and the gunpowder residue just give it that extra bit of flavor."

"Your father started from the bottom, yes? Thought I saw that mentioned in one of the papers," Istvan said, snorting at Cymkor's comment about wartime stew.

"Yes. What of it?"

"Most of the rich people I met in the army were officers who came from long lines of money. They'd have to go back centuries to find an ancestor who did an honest day's work."

"I have some of that in my bloodline, too," I said, after devouring a piece of spiced fried dough. "My mother comes from one of the old families. She started seeing my father just to spite her own parents. For her circle of friends, causing a scandal like that was just another pastime. That little scandalous dalliance turned into lasting love, though."

I cocked my head.

"You two know so much about me; like you said, you can find out about my family in the papers. But I know next to nothing about you, other than your time at war and your affinity for the old faith."

"Not much of a story," Istvan said with a shrug. "Grew up here in Raveth, down in the Gilded District."

Despite its name, that region of the city was anything but posh. Though not quite as rough as Dockside, it was certainly a place I'd not travel to without my guardian automatons.

"My parents ran a small tailor shop, mostly doing work for the justicars. All my life I dreamed of growing up to be a noble enforcer of the city's laws, cleaning up the streets of the Gilded District, being a big damned hero. Of course, you needed sponsorship to apply. One way to get that was to join the service. So I signed up with the People's Legions, expecting a four-year stint of garrison duty and shore patrol.

"War with Orkara broke out six months into my enlistment. I was sent off to artillery school, which is where I met Matyar. Then it was off to the mainland." He spread his hands. "The less details about the war, the better."

"Of course, of course," I murmured. "And your parents? Are they still in the Gilded District?"

"Aye. Still running their shop. Given our current work, it's too risky for me to visit them at the moment."

"Well. Here's hoping we finish our investigation quickly so you can see them again."

I cast an expectant glance over at Cymkor.

"It is a short tale," he said, before finishing off the last of his food. "I hail from the mainland city-state of Sorthayl. Old rivals of Orkara. So when Raveth went to war with Orkara, we sided with Raveth. Enemy of our enemy, and all that. When my unit was wiped out, we were folded into the Ravethi legions. That's how I met the others."

I'd heard enough scattered tales of hardship on the mainland to know that pressing him for more would have been unwelcome. Even before the carnage of the most recent war, the mainland had seemed like a dreadful place to live if the newspapers were to be believed. Horrific storms ravaged the countryside. Thick jungles unleashed dreadful plagues year after year. Constant warfare between the city-states claimed countless lives. Sorthayl in particular had been ravaged by plagues and storms during the war, falling to Orkara towards the end.

Only a valiant offensive by the Ravethi forces had retaken the city and forced the Orkarans to settle on Raveth's terms.

My brother had died within the trenches beneath Sorthayl's walls as part of that very offensive.

"That's not the first time the brief mention of war has put that dark gleam in your eyes," said Istvan. "And you mentioned losing someone, when I told you about Matyar..."

"My brother Gavriel." I swallowed, stared down at my hands. "He died during the last assault to retake Sorthayl."

"I owe him respect and honor, then," said Cymkor, his voice low and solemn.

"He wouldn't have seen it that way. He just...thought he was doing his duty."

"Where is he buried?" Cymkor asked, earning a little glare from Istvan.

"Better to drop it, Cymkor."

"If this man died liberating my people, then I must undertake the proper rites at his grave. It is the way of Sorthayl."

"He's beneath a tree in the rear garden of the family estate," I said, taking a deep breath. "So it is not the best place for you to pay your respects, given the current circumstances."

Cymkor rose and vanished into the little room where he'd been staying, then returned with a glass vial and a small knife.

"If you would do the honors, then. It is the way of Sorthayl. A weapon for the worthy dead, so they may protect themselves in the afterlife." His thick fingers tapped the vial. "And within is some soil from Sorthayl. Every man of Sorthayl takes a memento of home with him when he leaves. You would honor me and my people if you would place it above his grave, so that Sorthayl can protect him, as he protected us."

My lungs seized up as my trembling hands collected the items. After a few deep breaths I managed a nod, and nearly dropped the vial before setting it down upon the bench.

I shivered as he leaned down and kissed the top of my head.

"Gods' graves," I murmured, wiping at my tears once more. "That was quite the distraction. Back to work."

After all, Gavriel would not have languished in sorrow and grief, and would have intensified his efforts on the task at hand.

**

By late afternoon the next day, I had installed an acoustic sensor upon a small automaton designed for repairing fishing vessels. My modifications to its magnetic clamps would ensure it stayed latched on long enough to collect plenty of audio from within the vessel. As I worked, Cymkor did a bit of scouting in the harbor to get an idea for the depth of the water and a more precise size of the ship.

Armed with that knowledge, I was able to program the little machine. We could drop it in the water a few hundred yards away, and it would swim to the underside of theErrant Storm, clamp itself to the hull, and record whatever was going on inside.

If our little scheme worked, we could then plan our next move.

At dusk we headed for the docks, choosing a spot on a public pier a few hundred yards from our target. I stared across the murky water at the mysterious ironclad, just barely able to make out movement upon its moonlit deck.

The vessel, though possibly home to wicked cultists and their prisoners, looked just like every other kraken-hunter moored at Dockside. It was an ugly, squat vessel adorned with cranes, harpoons, and turrets designed to take on the sea's worst monsters. Were it not for our mission, I'd have not paid it any mind at all.

"Looks clear," Istvan murmured, his eyes drifting across the boardwalk.

Only a few people were about. Sailors headed back to their ships, dockworkers wandered about in search of a tavern, and a few sleepy beggars rested near the transit tower.

Crouching down, I opened my backpack and withdrew the footlong centipedal machine. A flick of my fingers over its runes brought it to life. Its appendages wriggled and whirred, aching to slice through the water that it had been designed to explore.

After one last careful glance at the target, I slipped the machine into the water.

"How long will it take?" Istvan asked.

"A few minutes to reach the ship," I said, hoping all of the extensive modifications hadn't doomed the little machine's reactor. "And I programmed it to remain attached for an hour. Then it will return here, we can collect the recordings, and then re-assess."

"Plenty of time for a drink, then," Istvan said with a grin. "Just not at the place where we met those Anchor Hounds, lest we arouse their suspicions."

Too damned nervous to even think about getting a bit tipsy, I walked with my lovers down the boardwalk until we found a quiet bar. Judging from the scars and ink-stains borne by the other patrons, this was a favored haunt for sailors from the kraken-hunting ships. They were rough, wild men who were warriors in their own right. Some of them had no doubt seen more action than sailors of the city's navy.

Settling in at the bar, I sipped on tea while Istvan made fast friends with the sailors, asking them for stories about krakens and other sea beasts. Notably, he never gave his actual name. Any details he divulged about himself were contradictory from what he'd told me earlier.

I smiled a little, realizing he was helping to spin stories that would serve as cover in case anyone came asking around about unusual characters.

"You told me your father wasn't an arms trader," Cymkor murmured, our conversation masked by Istvan's banter with the others. "And yet you're making those little razorflies."

"They didn't start as weapons. Instead, they started as a little amusement, a side project I undertook while I was a girl. As I grew older, I realized I needed a discreet means of self-defense." I brushed my fingers over the amulet. "I doubt I'll ever sell them, other than perhaps in small batches to other people who need discreet defenses."

"Then what's the dream? Every tinkerer has some grand invention they fantasize about."

"Know many tinkerers, do you?"

"A few. From the cults. From the war."

"Flight," I said with a bright smile. "I want to devise some sort of clockwork contraption that serves as affixable wings for a person to wear. Some of the progress I've made on aerodynamics for the razorflies has proven promising, but there's so many other considerations. Reactor output, weight, safety, heat dispersion..."

"Why?"

"Why would I want to fly?" I asked with a soft laugh. "Why would Inot want to? Have you never looked at a bird and felt a flash of envy?"

"Of course not. They're ugly, wretched little things who shit everywhere. Why would I envy that?"

Laughing, I swatted him on the arm.

"I'm serious. I'd never want to be a bird. Now..." He cocked his head. "A shark. Aye. Some sort of clockwork contraption that lets me breathe underwater and swim as fast as a shark? That'd be my dream."

"Once I perfect the secrets of personal flight devices, I shall begin work at once on a shark-suit for you, Cymkor."

We shared a laugh and I finally relaxed enough to have a small glass of brandy. It tasted like absolute piss compared to my father's stock, but Cymkor's company helped dull the bitterness somewhat.

After a bit more banter with the sailors, Cymkor joined Istvan in a round of dice. Before long they were betting away coins and spilling more falsified stories to help conceal their true purpose. I glanced at my pocket-watch. A thrill jolted through me.

It was nearly time.

After downing a cup of tea to fend off the brandy's influence, I collected my lovers and stepped back out into the night.

When we were halfway across the street, someone called out my name. My heart sank and I stopped in my tracks.

About twenty feet down the street stood a tall, lean young man wearing a fine suit, a dark brown greatcoat, and a bowler hat with a feather in it. Playful brown eyes gleamed at me through a set of little spectacles.

Miklos Zonkara.

My brother's best friend. Hero of the last war.

Agent of the Chamber of Internal Security.

The man whose warning had terrified my father.

"Oh, don't tell me you don't recognize me," he said warmly after I failed to reply. Smiling, he approached and gave a little bow of his head. "It's me, Miklos."

"Oh, yes, yes," I said quickly, adopting the persona of a prim and proper young woman despite my surroundings. "It's been so long. Not since..." I managed not to flinch. "Not since the funeral."

"Indeed," he said, his smile fading.

My lovers glanced at the man. Tension rippled through their hands.

"And who are your friends?"

"Not friends," Cymkor said. "Bodyguards. Dockside is a dangerous place for a young woman."

"Indeed," Miklos said. "Which begs the question: what are you doing out here, Lyneth?"

"Research. Since I will soon be taking a larger role in the family business, I want to hit the ground running. With how dangerous kraken-hunting is, I think capable automatons would make quite the asset. The sailors utilize old, surplus military models to help with the hunts, and I think they deserve something better."

I didn't dare look over at the pier where I'd deposited my scout. Given the time that had passed, the little machine had likely returned and was waiting for me to collect it.

If Miklos spared one quick glance over there, it would all be over.

"Ah, brilliant," Miklos said, keeping his eyes upon me. "I am sorry to have bothered you, Lyneth. When time permits, I'll have to make arrangements for another family dinner. It's been ages, after all."

"Of course, my friend," I said with the sweetest smile I could muster.

The agent of the Chamber gave a warm smile to Cymkor and Istvan, then turned and went on his way, heading up the cobblestone street that led to the transit tower.

Only once he was halfway down the street did I look over to the pier. My little automaton waited at the edge of the water, its metallic carapace flickering in the moonlight.

"Bloody fucking gods' graves," Istvan hissed at Cymkor. "You caught that too, didn't you?"

"Aye," said Cymkor, glowering at the young man's back. "The little tilt of his hips to show that he was armed? Cheeky bastard."

I hadn't caught that at all. Given their much greater experience with violent men, that was hardly a surprise.

After bidding Istvan to keep watch in case Miklos returned, I rushed over to the pier to fetch my waiting automaton. Once I'd collected the recording crystal from its underbelly, I shoved the machine back into its pouch.

"Quickly. Back to the workshop."

"No," said Cymkor. "If he sees you rushing back there, you'll only arouse his suspicions further. Better to linger here a while. Play at doing some 'research.' Talk to a few ship captains. Make it look believable."

**

After a nerve-racking hour of wandering among the other kraken-hunting ships on a fact-finding mission about the use of automatons, we headed back for the workshop.

I'd half-expected to find it in flames or surrounded by justicars. To my relief, it was just the way we'd left it: quiet and secure.

Once we were inside, my shaking hands popped the recording crystal into a phonograph.

"Please work, please work, please work," I murmured under my breath.

The machine whirred and clicked. A low hum emerged from the speakers, followed by a dull droning noise. After a few clicks, a faint voice rose through the hum. I adjusted the output a little.

"Lamprey stew again," a voice said."By the graces of old, I'm getting sick of this slop."

"Be grateful," said another."It's better than what we ate at the front."

"Not by much. Another bowl of this and I'll start to hunger for rats again."

The bickering about meals continued for several minutes. The voices faded. Footsteps flickered through the speakers. Long minutes passed, with no sound save for a low hum and the occasional footstep.

Another patter of footsteps, faster than the others. A door slammed.

"Saw him snooping around again. The skinny prick with the spectacles."

"Your friend Miklos?" Istvan murmured.

Cymkor and I both shushed him.

"Thought we paid off the justicars," said a woman's low voice.

"He's not one of them. Maybe he's one of the people who got away from the manor."

"Possibly. Could be an uglier possibility. The Legions. Or the Chamber."

"By the graces of old," the woman said. "Just what we need."

"Chamber, Legions, justicars...it matters not, said a thin, raspy voice who hadn't spoken up before."We're almost done here. The new additions will see the light soon enough."

"Which reminds me," said the woman. "It's almost time."

"Yes, yes."

For the next few minutes, the conspirators mumbled under their breath and chanted prayers.

"Followers of the old ways, definitely," said Istvan. "And what they said a few times, 'by the old graces...' that's an archaic curse. Some of the faithful back in the war would say it, especially those from Urvport."

"You don't recognize any of the voices, do you?" I asked.

"No," said Cymkor, shaking his head.

From what I could tell from the recording, there were at least six distinct voices taking part in that little service. I paused the recording to take a few notes.

"The 'new additions' they referred to...maybe they mean the prisoners," Istvan said. "The talk about seeing the light: maybe they're trying to convert them. Sway them to their particular path?"