The Armored Saint

by Myke Cole

  It seemed so simple, just like the tinker-yoke she’d seen on the oxen. The rods there had driven the beast’s legs, lending strength to its movements. If she could reach the straps, and if the engine was powered with seethestone, this would do the same for her limbs.

  She pressed her arm up against the leather and metal armature, grunted as she strained against it. It didn’t budge. It was far too heavy to move without the engine running. She looked down at the stack of weapons, the tangs sharp as the blades themselves where they would attach to the machine’s huge fists. Maybe in one or two more winters, she’d be big enough to drive it. Brother Tone would not be so high and mighty then, even with a column of Pilgrims at his back.

  “Stay away from my father,” a voice said. It was a moment before she realized that it was her own, that she had been so overcome by the fantasy of driving the machine against the Pilgrims that she had spoken aloud.

  She looked around, embarrassed, but there was no one to hear her inside the vault. She could see a huge canister over her shoulder, bolted to the machine’s back, the piping all converging on it, as if it were some giant metal spider. The engine. The seethestone must go in there. A salted cloth sack hung from a rivet beside a metal funnel that led into the canister. She prodded it, felt the seethestone inside. The driver would be able to feed the engine without ever leaving the cage. She turned around, slipping her arms out of the metal sleeves and looking for the lid when a knock sounded at the bronze door.

  She scrambled, turning around and dropping down onto the leather-padded ledge. Her legs got tangled in the straps, and she went off balance, her face slamming painfully against the gorget. The machine lurched sickeningly. Sacred Throne, it’s going to fall. They’ll find me tangled up in it if I’m not crushed to death.

  She froze, waiting for the mechanism to topple over, but the wooden rack was big and heavy, and the machine only rocked gently in place as the tumblers turned and bronze door shuddered. She scrambled again, desperate to get down before the door was flung wide and Barnard saw her, but the straps tangled about her legs, and she was still only halfway to the ground when the door creaked slowly open and light flooded in, borne on a gust of fresh air that blew the candle out.

  Basina stood in the doorway, panting. “Did it myself,” she grinned as she looked up, leaning against the heavy door. Her eyes widened as she saw Heloise, and she raced inside, whispering, “What are you doing? Father will skin you!”

  “Please don’t tell him,” Heloise said. “I only wanted to see, and I didn’t think I could hurt it.”

  Basina leaned in, her arms still sweating from the effort of opening the door. She untangled the straps, reaching out a hand to help Heloise down. “I won’t tell him, but you have to promise not to do it again.”

  “There’s nothing to do in here,” Heloise said. “Maybe you could leave me a copy of the Writ? I could study it when I’m not sleeping.”

  “Are you so pious?” Basina asked.

  “No,” Heloise admitted, “but I’ll go mad otherwise. Do you think you could get my writing kit? I need to spend the time somehow.”

  Basina nodded. “I know. I’ll see if Father will let me come more often. The Emperor is truly watching over you. If my father hadn’t sent me to let you out . . .”

  “Why are you letting me out?”

  “It’s after supper, Father checked on you twice before, and you were so tired that you slept right through it,” Basina said. “The road’s clear. Father says you’re to come outside and walk around the house for a bit.”

  Heloise followed Basina into the workshop, where the Tinkers were working, Barnard and his sons taking turns hammering at a hot piece of iron while the crucible bubbled orange light around them all. After the long dark of the vault, the workshop floor seemed to glow, even though it was dark outside. The air, heavy with ash and smoke, was sweeter than she’d ever tasted, and she stopped and closed her eyes, gulping it down.

  “You’re all right, Heloise?” Barnard asked, not looking up from his work.

  “Yes, Master Tinker,” she said. “You’re very kind to keep me here.”

  “Do you want for anything?”

  “May I see my papa and mama now? Just for a little while.”

  Barnard did stop hammering at that, set the heavy tool to rest beside the anvil. “I’m sorry, Heloise. I spoke to Sigir, and while the Order’s not on the road here, they’re still in the valley and close by. Best to keep you close to your hiding spot in case they arrive. You’ll see your parents as soon as it’s safe.”

  “Are they all right?”

  “They’re fine, Heloise. May the Emperor judge me if I lie.”

  Her ears believed him, but her heart did not, and Heloise knew that until she saw Samson whole and breathing, she would never be able to know, to truly know, that he lived. She was less frightened for her mother. It was her father the Order wanted. Or would they try to take her as a way to get to him? The thought made her stomach lurch.

  “May I . . . may I just be alone for a bit?”

  “I’ll come with you,” Basina began, but Barnard stopped her with a wave.

  “Leave her be,” Barnard said. “Stick close to the house, Heloise. You can stay out until we get the crucible scraped and put down for the night. Then we’ll come and get you.”

  Heloise turned to go, but Barnard stopped her with a word. “Heloise?”

  “Yes, Master Tinker?”

  “I can trust you not to go running off, can’t I? I know you miss your parents, but there is a time to run and a time to wait, and now is for the waiting.”

  “You can trust me, Master Tinker.”

  “I believe I can.”

  Heloise nodded and stepped out into the cool night air. If the workshop air had seemed sweet, the outside air was even better. She tilted her face up to the stars, feeling some of the worry lift from her. The moonlight washed the pebbles on the path to the common silver. She need only follow it to the green and across it to reach the Maior’s house where her father hid. Did the Maior have him in his root cellar? Was Samson even now walking around Sigir’s house, looking up at the same stars? Was he worried about her?

  She knew she would never make it there and back again in the time it would take the Tinkers to get the crucible scraped, and it would take even longer to get to the herber’s to see her mother. The Tinkers would understand, but they would be angry. Worse, she might bring danger to her parents, to all of them. If the Order came and Sigir or Deuteria were suddenly forced to hide her, too, and they were caught, what then?

  Besides, whether the Order came or not, she had told Barnard Tinker that she would not go running off, and her father always said a man was nothing without his word. She wasn’t a man, but she supposed the point held.

  Heloise sighed and walked around the house, keeping close as Barnard had instructed. The wind picked up, setting the treetops to whispering, and Heloise let the sound lull her as she walked, grateful for the feel of her legs stretching, the touch of the cool breeze raising gooseflesh along the backs of her arms.

  “Heloise,” the trees whispered to her as she rounded the back of the house, wind sighing in the branches. “Heloise.”

  She froze. Not wind. Not trees.

  “Heloise.”

  She whirled as a figure detached itself from the shadows of the wood, came toward her. “It’s all right.” The moonlight fell across the figure just as she was about to scream and run, outlining an old man, tall and thin, hard as cured leather. Silver light pooled in the corners of his eyes as they crinkled into a smile. “It’s all right, it’s me.”

  “Clodio! How did you find me?”

  “Shh. Keep your voice down. I’m not supposed to be here. Sigir told me to leave the valley, but I had to make sure my favorite factors were all right first.”

  “Sigir? Have you seen my father?”

  “I have. He’s well, Heloise. Worried, but well. He told me you’d be here.”

  “Clodio, the Ord
er came. They’re looking for—”

  “I know, poppet. I know. Don’t you worry. I’ve made a life staying one step ahead of the Order. They’ll not find me unless I want finding.”

  She raced to him, throwing her arms around him. He smelled of leather and leaf mold, of sweat and hard travel. Of safety and home. “Oh, it’s so good to see you, Clodio. Sigir’s right that it’s not safe for you here, but I’m still glad you came.”

  “I never got the chance to close the deal with your father,” Clodio said, stroking her hair. “Can’t go far until things are settled with that.”

  Heloise hugged him tighter. After all the talk of death and hiding, she was grateful for smaller, safer topics. “You think he’ll buy your wares?”

  “Your father’s satisfied,” Clodio said. “He may cross his arms and draw storm clouds on his brow, but the truth is I could sell him his own boots if I’d a mind. He’s lucky I owe him for watching my back in the war. He’ll take all of the rind and be sending me back to the desert for more, mark me.”

  “I mark you,” Heloise said.

  Clodio set a hand on her shoulder. “You must be terrified, Heloise. You put on a very brave face.”

  She shrugged, “I don’t see what else I can do.”

  “In times like these,” Clodio said, “most men and women grown alike act the fool. You’re a woman grown, and no mistake. You’re sure you are well?”

  “Well enough, I suppose.”

  “You don’t sound well, Heloise.”

  “They are hiding me in the vault, Clodio. It’s tiny and dark and there’s nothing to do. Basina comes once in a while, but mostly I’m alone.”

  Clodio smiled sadly. “I wish I could stay with you. I wish I could take you with me, but life on the road is hard.”

  “The Kipti manage it,” Heloise said.

  “The Kipti carry their homes on carts. Rangers sleep out under the weather, with the birds and the beasts for company.”

  Heloise nodded. She hadn’t known that she even wanted to go with Clodio until he had raised the possibility, and the refusal now seemed to snatch even that hope away from her.

  Clodio slowly opened his pouch, thrusting a hand inside. “I have something for you.”

  “What is it?”

  Clodio drew his hand out of the bag. Nestled in his palm was small gray mouse.

  It crouched in his palm as if it were a second home, rubbing its tiny paws together under its twitching pink nose. Its ears were a bit long, its tail a bit short, but otherwise it looked like any of a dozen of the creatures that her mother was forever chasing out of the house.

  “I found him foraging in my bags. Each morning, I ran him off. The next morning, there he was again. After a while I just couldn’t bring myself to let him go. He’s been traveling with me for at least a fortnight now.”

  “And you’re giving him to me?”

  Clodio nodded. “To watch over you.”

  Heloise felt like she was two people at once: the Heloise whose heart was swelling at Clodio’s kindness, and the Heloise who was annoyed at being treated like a baby. It was a mouse. It couldn’t watch over anyone.

  Stop it. Clodio is the kindest person you know besides Basina. He’s just being sweet.

  Her cheeks burned with shame, and she reached out for the mouse. “I’m living in the vault here, Clodio. I have no way to care for him.”

  “Oh, he can look after himself. He’s an independent mouse. He was always scampering off when I was on the range, but every morning he’d be back in my pouch sure as the sun rose.”

  “But how will I feed him?”

  “He is a field mouse, Heloise. A ranger like me. He will feed himself.”

  The mouse stood up on his hind legs and faced Heloise, tiny nose sniffing the air, little black eyes fixing on her. His gaze was so intent and earnest that Heloise couldn’t help but laugh.

  “What shall we name him?” Clodio asked. “He is your mouse now, so you should do the honors.”

  Heloise looked at the little trembling body, considered. “I will call him Twitch.”

  Clodio nodded. “A good name for a good mouse.”

  “You’re sure I can have him?”

  “I am. A ranger’s life can be hard even on a mouse. He would be much happier with a warm hearth and a little girl who truly loves him.”

  “There’s no hearth in the vault.”

  “You won’t be in the vault forever.”

  She reached out tentatively, and Twitch strained to reach her, stretching up on his tiny legs, short tail poked out for balance. “Does he bite?”

  “Yes,” Clodio said, “but not you. Never you.”

  Twitch jumped onto her hand. His claws raised gooseflesh as he scampered up her arm to her shoulder and down the side of her dress, vanishing inside the pocket at the front of her skirt. She reached into it to ensure he was there, stroked the soft fur between the ears with her finger. His whiskers tickled as he turned to sniff at her, but Clodio was as good as his word, and he didn’t bite her.

  Heloise knew that Twitch couldn’t really watch over her, but she had to admit, with the mouse in her pocket, she did feel safer. “Thank you.”

  “He’ll look after you now. The Emperor knows he’ll do a better job of it than I ever could.”

  She hugged Clodio again, careful to keep her pocket well away. “I’m so glad you’re back, Clodio.”

  “As am I, my dear,” Clodio said, his voice thick. “Now, run along, or Barnard will be wise to our little meeting, and I’ll never hear the end of it. I’ll check in on you in a fortnight or so. All will be well, Heloise. You’ll see.”

  Heloise didn’t want him to go, but the feel of Twitch’s soft fur under her thumb helped give her courage. She gave him a final hug, not speaking for fear that she would cry again, and then she began her slow circuit of the house as Clodio’s shape dwindled in the darkness behind her.

  The stars wheeled overhead and the trees resumed their whispering and she was alone again. No, not alone.

  “You’ll watch over me, won’t you?” she found herself whispering to the mouse in her skirt pocket, even though it made her feel silly.

  Hell slithers like the snake and burns like the salamander.

  Hell bites like the winter and the blade alike.

  From this font the wizard drinks,

  And as the wolf pup shall gnaw on the innards of the dead,

  Surely it so gnaws upon the soul of the man,

  Until he is consumed, and the portal open within him,

  —Writ. Imp. III. 1

  CHAPTER 9: FOUND

  Heloise said nothing of Clodio’s visit, or of his gift. Keeping secrets made for troubled sleep. She woke in the night, went fumbling her way over to the sack of candles. Her one hand felt Twitch, still nestled in her pocket. The other brushed the old stub of her candle and found it cold. She felt around for the sparkstone and the metal striker, set to sparking them together.

  She froze mid-strike, listening.

  Shouting, loud enough to be heard through the thick bronze. Men’s voices, raised in anger. They came louder and more frequent, though the metal door prevented her from making out the actual words. She recognized Barnard’s voice, his sons, a woman’s, probably Chunsia’s. Other men, one of whom sounded familiar.

  Barnard’s voice coming closer, still yelling. She could make out some of his words now. “Of course not! . . . Solid metal, it is! . . . impossible!” Heloise backed away from the door, waiting to hear the iron key rattling in the lock, the tumblers turning.

  Instead she heard a knock. Then another. And another.

  Three knocks. Danger.

  “See? Solid metal,” Barnard said.

  The familiar man’s voice said something she couldn’t hear.

  “I will not,” Barnard shouted. “Only the Procurer may look inside.”

  More shouting.

  Heloise looked frantically around, seeing nothing in the inky black. Was there anywhere to hide? She searc
hed her memory of the space when it had been lit. Her heart pounded, her breath coming so fast it was hard to think. The racks on the walls were shallow, the unfinished works lining them not big enough to hide behind. The corners were bare. The only things in the tight space were the war-machines.

  Heloise bent, scooping up her blankets, pot, food, and candles and climbing into one of the war-machines. She tucked her supplies behind her, and threw the blanket over one of the rods in the frame, letting it drape in front of her body before shoving her arms into the metal sleeves, just as the iron key rattled in the lock and the door swung open, Barnard still yelling behind it.

  “The Procurer will hear of this, Holy Brother,” Barnard was saying. “It will not go unpunished.”

  “You are a villager,” the familiar voice was clear now. It was Brother Tone. Heloise could see the outline of his head and shoulders through the weave of the blanket. There were more with him. “You do not deal in punishment, but I do. And the punishment I will mete out on that factor will make hell itself seem gentle.”

  Barnard looked inside, and Heloise peeked out from beneath a corner of the blanket just enough to see the shock on his face. He had surely thought they were all doomed. “Well, as you can see, there’s naught in here save the Imperial commissions, which are supposed to be a secret from all, even you, Holy Brother.”

  The light from the workshop came in behind Tone, so that she could see the grim set of his mouth, but not the zealous blazing of his blue eyes. “I decide what is secret and what is not here, villager.” Tone looked up at the machine, and Heloise felt as if he could see through the blanket. She stayed frozen, not daring to move, not daring to breathe.

  Tone looked around, eyes sweeping the racks and floor, his face satisfied until he looked up at the racks in the center.

  “What are these? Armor?” Tone asked.