Corambis

by Sarah Monette

  “It saves Caloxa,” I muttered, flipping back to the stories Gerrard Hume’s nurse had told him when he was a little boy. “But how does it save Caloxa? It’s not a fairy tale. There has to be something that it does.” The people of Howrack said that the labyrinth under Summerdown was verlain, meaning sacred or possibly obscenely, filthily profane. Meaning dangerous. Meaning bad.

  The ancient Corambin people were collecting badness, Mildmay had said.

  It was possible to turn noirant power into clairant, but not in an abattoir, full of blood and pain and the psychic stench of violent death. So they were collecting badness to . . .

  To do something bad with it.

  I looked at Penny’s pictures of the engine again, looked at the way everything focused down on that small oblong plate where (Penny’s neat handwriting said) THE CASTER DOTH EXHALE TO MIST THE METAL. Gerrard Hume had done that and died. I remembered what Corbie had said about the Mulkists and the Sacrifice of the Caster, and I crossed out CASTER and wrote above it in my looping scrawl, sacrifice.

  And then I sat there and thought about sacrifices and about what the people who considered seven men an acceptable sacrifice—who could design and build a machine for the purpose of collecting seven sacrifices—might think “saving Caloxa” meant. I thought about the fact that the engine, improperly and insufficiently primed, was killing sheep and stopping trains and causing suicides.

  Mildmay said, “Felix? You okay?”

  “How do you save anything with noirant power?” I said.

  “Um.”

  “You don’t.” I couldn’t sit still any longer. I got up, paced the inadequate length of the hotel room and back. “Noirance is the magic of death and darkness and twisted things. It doesn’t save. It destroys. So if they were collecting seven men’s lives’ worth of noirant power, it wasn’t going to save anything. It was going to destroy whatever it was aimed at.”

  “You can aim something like that?”

  “I don’t know. Penny doesn’t know—Penny doesn’t have the least idea, and neither did that poor stupid fool who got himself and all his best men killed. Whatever it’s aimed at is what its builders aimed it at.”

  “And it’s trying to fire itself, right?” Mildmay said. “That’s the big trouble that Intended Whatsisface is so worried about.”

  “Marcham. Yes. It doesn’t have enough power and it’s trying to collect power itself.”

  “And if Kay . . .”

  “He’s the last part of the sacrifice. The part that didn’t work. And if he goes and—”

  “Does something stupid.”

  “Yes, thank you. If he finishes the engine’s ritual . . .”

  “Well, then what? It fires itself and, what? Like your big green lightning bolts?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe more like the ‘pestilence’ that’s killing the sheep. Maybe mikkary like a miasma to drive an entire city mad. Maybe the twisting of all Corambis’s clairant workings into noirance, which would . . . I don’t even know what it would do, but the wizards of this country are utterly unprepared to deal with it.”

  “Maybe that’s what made Nauleverer,” Mildmay said. “The last time they set it off, I mean.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Oh damn. Of course. It drove the Automaton of Corybant mad. And that’s why the Automaton woke again. Because the engine was awake and called to it.”

  “And the other one? The Clock of Eclipses?”

  “No,” I said absently. “That was me.” And then I sat down hard on the bed.

  “Felix?”

  “That’s what Beckett did. He sacrificed me to the Clock of Eclipses.”

  Mildmay was looking at me with visible alarm. “But you’re alive. Right?”

  “Yes, yes. Sorry. Not a ghoul or a ghost. Because he twisted it. He made an analogy. Between sex and magic and death. And because Titan Clocks are, relatively speaking, small engines—not like this monster under Summerdown—it worked. I knew it almost killed me, but I didn’t understand why any more than Beckett did.” I was twisting my fingers together because otherwise I was going to start screaming.

  “But what you’re saying is, that wouldn’t work on the engine under Summerdown, even if somebody knew to try it, which they don’t.”

  “And even if they did, we don’t want to start that engine again,” I said.

  “Right. So what it comes down to is, we gotta stop this thing, regardless of whether it helps Kay or not.”

  The kindness in that we nearly undid me. I stopped pacing, ran my hands through my hair. “Yes. I think we’d better leave for Summerdown tonight.”

  Kay

  I told Julian how to recognize Vyell and Leadbitter, which was fortunately very easy. Vyell was the largest man I had ever met—over six feet tall—and he was almost inhumanly beautiful. “Is his nickname,” I told Julian. “Angel Vyell.” And when we descended from the third-class carriage at twenty-three-forty on Lunedy night, Julian almost immediately hissed in my ear, “I see him! It has to be him.”

  “If thinkst it is Vyell, it is,” I said.

  “And there’s another man with him? Shorter, skinnier, big ears?”

  “Leadbitter,” said I.

  “What should we do?”

  “Go to meet them. Is why we’re here.”

  “Right,” Julian said, though he sounded most uncertain.

  “They will not harm you,” said I. “Go, Julian! For an you do not, I cannot.”

  “Right,” said Julian again, and this time he did start forward. I kept pace with him, knowing I could trust him to guide me safely.

  We had gone maybe fifteen paces when he said, “They’ve seen us!” He kept walking, and after a few more steps, a voice I recognized as Vyell’s said, sounding as uncertain as Julian, “My lord?”

  “Am no lord now,” said I. “Hello, Angel.”

  “Strewth,” said a hoarse whisper, “what did they do to him?”

  “Am blind, Leadbitter, not deaf. Vyell, I understand from Trant’s letter that thou hast a plan?”

  “Who’s the young gentleman?” Vyell said warily.

  “Julian Carey. He is under my protection, and he may be trusted.”

  “I hope you are right,” said Vyell. “But come. Need not discuss the matter in the middle of the train station.”

  In fact, there was little need for discussion at all. Vyell and Leadbitter had three horses, as they had assumed it would be the two of them and myself. But since Julian was a stripling still and I was “dwarfish,” as the Corambin papers had been calling me for indictions, we could share a horse and not burden the poor beast unduly. Julian was a better horseman than I had expected. “I didn’t come to Esmer until I was fourteen,” said he when I asked. “I grew up in hunting country—I miss it.” He had no difficulty in keeping up with Vyell and Leadbitter, as he might have had afoot; I concentrated on not letting my resentment curdle into hostility that none of my companions deserved. I wondered what Cecil had done with my horses, and knew that I would never be able to bear to ask.

  We slept out Lunedy and Martedy, which Julian disliked but did not complain about. Vyell explained apologetically that he was avoiding the main roads and railway lines, meaning that our approach to Summerdown was somewhat circuitous. “But better that than arrested, my lord.”

  “Angel, I am no lord.”

  “Say the Corambins,” said Vyell.

  Martedy night, after Leadbitter and Julian were asleep, I heard Vyell get up and come around the small fire. Was unmistakably Vyell; no matter how silently he moved, he was still an enormous man. “My lord?” he whispered.

  “Am awake,” I whispered back as he knelt down beside me.

  “Wilt come walk with me, my lord?” Angel was violet and cared not who knew it. We had taken pleasure in each other’s company more than once; Angel was gentle, willing, and his angel’s mouth was as sweet as any jezebel’s. But I remembered Gerrard and my love for him that was a burden as heavy as chains, remembered Oliver Carey and Ambrose, who
m I had heard at Isser Chase talking to each other with the deep warmth of married persons.

  I whispered back, “Why? Why wouldst wish that of me?”

  “Why not?”

  “Is for pleasure, I am willing. Is for charity”—or hero’s worship or love—“I am not.”

  “An you do not wish it,” Angel said, drawing back, “need only say so.” But I could not explain to him what I wished, or did not wish. “Go to sleep, Vyell,” I said and rolled over.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, as sharply as a curse.

  We came to Summerdown at midday on Mercoledy. “Is close enough,” said Vyell. “Leadbitter, you stay here with the horses.”

  “But, Vyell—”

  “Don’t argue with me,” said Vyell, who had been brusque and impatient all morning.

  “Julian, stay here with Leadbitter,” said I. “Leadbitter, thou wilt protect him.”

  “Kay, I don’t need—”

  “Yes, thou dost, even an thou knowst it not. Leadbitter?”

  “Yes, my lord. Will see him safe.”

  “I thank thee,” I said. “Shall we, Angel?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Vyell, and the great bulk of him was next to me. I took his arm, and we set forth.

  I remembered the approach to the labyrinth of Summerdown distinctly enough, and Vyell had told me that the Usara were camped in the labyrinth, to avoid the notice of the locals. Thus, when we came out from among the stand of trees, and Vyell angled slightly to the left, I knew at once and perfectly where we were and how the land lay. In that last week before Gerrard attempted the engine and died, I had spent more than one night putting myself to sleep by designing fortifications to utilize the down’s natural advantages. The village of Howrack would be a dead loss, but Summerdown itself could be defended almost indefinitely, given a large enough supply of food and sufficient protection for the spring that rose fifty yards from the labyrinth’s entrance.

  By my best reckoning, Vyell and I were ten yards from the mouth of the labyrinth when Vyell tugged me to a stop. “Usara,” he said. “They have bows.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Is a small band,” said he. “The cephar and ten men. More than enough to handle five light-mazed prisoners.”

  “Is why they do it,” I said mildly, hearing the self-reproach in his voice.

  “And here’s Dothaw,” said Vyell.

  “Cougar-cephar!” called Dothaw. Once heard, the cephar Dothaw’s voice was unforgettable, a great growling bass suited to the crag bear that was his clan’s usar. “Will treat with us?”

  “Yes, Dothaw,” I called in answer. “I will treat with you.”

  “Vyell comes no farther. We speak only to you, Cougar-cephar.”

  Lady, keep me strong. “Am blind, Dothaw. Someone must guide me.”

  There was a mutter of voices, speaking Usaran; I couldn’t pick anything out distinctly. “Was the angverlaint?” asked Dothaw.

  “Yes.” Ang was the Usaran word simply for “thing,” and if anything was an angverlaint, a forbidden-thing, it was that cursed engine.

  Another mutter. “Aengis will come to guide you,” called Dothaw. “Once Vyell has gone back to the trees.”

  “My lord?” said Vyell.

  “Do it,” said I. He moved away from me reluctantly, and then I was alone.

  The darkness was no worse, I told myself. I was not lost. I was not falling. Were no anchors, but I needed them not. I knew where I was. I was not falling. The ground was solid beneath my feet, solid and safe, and I did not need to go down on my knees, did not need to press my hands to it. Was not going to fall. My nails were digging into my palms, harder and harder, but I was not going to cower down like a rabbit beneath the moon-shadow of an owl. Was not.

  And then a voice said, “Cougar-cephar?” and a hand touched my shoulder.

  “You are Aengis?” I said.

  “Yes, Cougar-cephar.”

  “Give me your arm,” I said, and it took all the strength of will I had not to clutch at it.

  I felt the shadow of Summerdown, smelled the cool dampness of the labyrinth, and knew we were within the down.

  “Cougar-cephar,” said Dothaw, and his hands came to rest heavily on my shoulders. Short as I was, Dothaw was an inch or two shorter, and among the Usara he was a tall man.

  “Dothaw,” I said. “What are the matters you would treat with me?”

  “Is simple, really,” said Dothaw, and I felt foreboding like ice across my shoulders and down my spine. “You will give yourself to us, and we will let these men go.”

  “My lord!” Trant’s voice. “Don’t! Is not—” Someone hit him.

  “I trade myself for them?” I said. “Very well. Then what?”

  “Then, Cougar-cephar, I am sorry,” Dothaw said, and he sounded sincere, “but you must go to the angverlaint, and you must die.”

  I heard protests—all three of the Caloxans—but I raised a hand and they were silent.

  “Is not our wish,” said Dothaw. “But the angverlaint cannot be stopped in any other way. And it must be stopped, before its sickness spreads. It is only sheep dying now, and the engines of the northermen which can be always brought back to life, but it will not stay that way.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Let my men go. I agree.”

  “My lord!” cried Trant.

  “Get him out of here,” I said, and I knew by the sounds that I was obeyed.

  “There are necessary rituals,” Dothaw said. “Thou knowst the way of sacrifice.”

  “Of course,” I said, and I held out my wrists to be tied.

  Felix

  Reaching Summerdown turned out to be one of those things that was far easier in theory than in practice. On the map and in Ottersham, it seemed perfectly straightforward. The nearest train station was Pigrin, and the ticket clerk in Barthas Cross assured us we would be able to hire at least a dog cart to take us the rest of the way. Being noted for its chalybeate, Pigrin was better equipped than most Caloxan towns for the needs of visitors. What none of us counted on was not being able to reach Pigrin in the first place.

  We traveled third class. Corbie frowned over Practitioner Penny’s notes; I took the trumps and sibyls out of the Sibylline, and Mildmay and I played cards, a bastardized version of Long Tiffany that made my abysmal card sense less of an issue.

  I was still hopelessly overmatched, though, and the game devolved gradually into Mildmay playing his own hand and advising me how to play mine: more of a private tutorial than an actual card game. I was profiting from my lesson, to the point that Mildmay said something about not being embarrassed to be seen with me. I was about to respond in kind when the train lurched, juddered, and became suddenly silent, although it was some time before it stopped moving. My pile of trumps and sibyls slithered gracefully to the floor.

  “Not another machine-monster?” Mildmay said worriedly.

  Corbie picked the quire of Penny’s notes up off the floor and said, “No, I think is the thing Cyriack and Robin and them have all been beating their brains out over. ’Cause, look—ain’t that Summerdown?” She pointed, and Mildmay and I looked at the great hill rising like a cloud bank south of the train.

  “Oh,” Mildmay said. “So it’s that engine stopping this one?” He didn’t sound much happier than he had about the prospect of another Automaton, which I supposed was reasonable enough.

  “If we’ve understood Penny’s notes correctly,” I began, leaning down to collect the fallen cards. My hand froze mid-reach, and I forgot what I had been about to say.

  “Felix? You okay?”

  “No,” I said. Of the twenty-one trumps and four sibyls, three cards had landed faceup: the number I habitually used when reading the cards.

  Death, the Spire, and the Prison.

  I said, “Corbie, can you go find out how long it’ll take to get the train moving again?”

  “Sure.” She left, and Mildmay said, “Are them cards as bad as I think they are?”

 
; “Yes,” I said and picked them up carefully one by one.

  “Um,” he said unhappily. “What’re they trying to tell you?”

  “I don’t know. Death is obvious and nothing we didn’t already know. The Spire is sacrifice—”

  “And scapegoats. I remember Mavortian telling me that.”

  “Yes. And that’s fairly obvious, too. So it’s down to the Prison, which I’m afraid is not obvious at all.”

  “Well, what’s it mean? You know, generally.”

  “It’s the card of imprisonment.” He glowered at me, and I went on: “Bad choices. Dead ends. It’s the card for feeling like you have no way out of a bad situation, or that no choice you make will be the right one.”

  “So.” He was frowning. “Why’re the cards telling you? What’re you s’posed to do?”

  “They’re probably ‘telling’ me because it’s their nature to respond to patterns in the manar. Or the aether, if you prefer. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

  “You wanna bet?”

  I glared at him. “Well, what do you suggest I do?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever I say to do, you won’t do it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That you’re contrary.” He met my eyes, daring me to deny it.

  “All right,” I said, and even to my own ears I sounded sulky. “I promise I won’t reject your idea out of hand. What is it?”

  “Well, your cards’re already talking to you.”

  “You want me to do a reading?” But then, he always had been respectful of the Sibylline—oddly so, considering his general attitude toward “hocus stuff.”

  “It can’t hurt,” he said, which was both reasonable and true. I shuffled the trumps and sibyls together, leaving the Spire out. It seemed the best candidate for a significator. When the noirance was running clear, I cut the deck and dealt three cards.

  Death, the Prison, and the Hermaphrodite.

  I was still staring at those four cards when Mildmay said, “Corbie’s coming back.” I swept the entire pack together and shuffled, more savagely than was perhaps strictly necessary.