I sought to make peace. “Sorry I threw the rock.”
She kicked the mountain hard. “Yester eve you beat your dear cousin Thom’s head most in with a stick,” she replied. “He’ll lie cold by dawn. Why the hell-fire do you sorrow for throwing a rock?”
I couldn’t find aught to reply. My Da’s praise of worth and sacrifice? Empty words to any but an Espada ear. I might describe how Thom near gutted me with a last turn of his knife, and how I loved him for it. Again, to an outsider that made mere muttering of wind. I weighed whether to tell Kariel that I missed her, how I saw her face in the hearth fire by night. But those were words I scarce dared say to myself.
So I said naught. Pushed at the mountain with my shoulder, hoping it’d topple over. It did not. While Kariel fired angry looks at clouds, defying them to storm. They did not. At sunset I sighed and left. Didn’t see her again till the Tempering grew to wild mad murder. When the valley rang with screams and blade-clang.
Then it was I found myself in the barn loft looking down at cousins Emily and Edgar. And there Kariel sat beside me. “Going to cut their throats?” she asked. Sarcastic thing.
I shook head. “They aren’t asleep. They lie waiting for me to drop down. See how you can’t spy Ed’s left hand, Emily’s right? Knives ready for my gut.”
They twitched at that. I think Emily giggled. Edgar was always a solemn sort. But anything could make Em laugh.
Kariel stared down, shook hair-waves. “Well, that’s just awful,” she declared.
“’Tis no thing you can understand, girl,” I sighed.
“Not a thing for understanding, boy” snipped Kariel. “Your folk blither of love for family, hearts like to your heart. And yet you sit up here readying knife for their throats?”
“What would you have me do?” I asked.
“End this murdering now, you twit!”
I stared at her legs. She kicked them back and forth. Bare toes. A shout came from outside. A scream, cut off. I wondered how many remained on live in the valley. Twenty, perhaps. All others fled, else now quiet and cold. Uncle Thom had been the eldest left. Today I’d cut his throat in the well-house. No business of sneaking upon one another. He’d come out as I’d been entering. We stopped, smiled, nodded. He raised rapier. Formal-like. Then he thrust, I parried and cut. Not a word passing between us. I helped him to his house, wrapped him in a rug when he died. Burying was a thing put off for now.
Thom gone, Da gone. Who remained to place stars beneath names, to call ‘halt’ to the challenges? Outside came laughter. I doubted those remaining would welcome any call to cease. Fighting was dance to us, and the music now played fast and hot. I studied Kariel’s legs, back, forth, back. Stared down at my cousins below us, waiting to knife my guts.
“I could ring the bell in the main house,” I said, thinking slow and aloud. It occurred that I probably had more victory stars than any yet quick within the valley. “I could summon the remaining. No one can quarrel we’ve not met every last challenge set by our elders.”
Kariel ceased swinging legs. “Past time you did so then,” she growled.
She turned face to me. It shone wet. Well, she’d been crying. Hadn’t caught that in her voice. Kariel is a proud thing, a soul for eagle perches. The sight of those tears near made me drop myself upon my cousin’s knives.
I did not. Instead I pushed aside slats, came out on the roof. A risk if any waited above. I climbed down, traveled slow through the village, watchful of knives or arrows. Met Cousin Alexander on the path. Holding stomach, staggering. He bragged how Aunt Sapho near cut him for shoe-leather. We both laughed. Saph was a bird-boned thing over forty. He’d only walked away by breaking her neck. I helped Alex along, told him I’d decided to ring the bell, call halt to the Tempering. At that Alex tried to cut me with a sleeve-blade, but he had no strength left. I took no offense. I carried him to shadows where he could lie and die in peace.
The Clan Hall door stood open. Uncle William lying on the thresh hold. Head bashed in fresh. Surprised me; I’d thought him out of the challenges days past. I moved him aside lest any step upon him. A good soul; over sixty but crazed for the Tempering. Too old to somersault from roofs, but the devil with a crossbow. In dead hand he grasped something now. No crossbow. Two wooden buttons, bound together with hair. Letter ‘E’ carved on each. I knew this bauble. A friendship token twixt Emily and Edgar. Puzzling. Uncle Will lay still warm, but I’d left those two in the barn.
I entered the hall. Sad to see it dark, shadows sitting to cold table, hearth-fire dead. I lit every lamp and candle I could find. Then went to the corner where the bell-rope hung. It lay on the floor. Someone had cut it near the top. No doubt to prevent exactly what I intended: ring a halt. I sighed, began climbing the belfry steps. Then stopped, considered the two buttons.
Emily and Edgar had not lain sleeping. They’d grinned to hear Kariel and I quarrel. Soon as I gained the roof, they must have leapt up, rushed to the Clan Hall. Meeting Uncle Will, bashing in his dear gray head. Dying, he grabbed the friendship token. Within the hall they’d cut the bell rope. Now Edgar awaited me at the top, holding Uncle’s crossbow. Emily would be tiptoeing behind me with knife. She had a fast hand with short blade.
Stone spiral steps. They wouldn’t creak warning. I could tiptoe down, come upon Em alone. But it’d still come to facing Edgar above. I didn’t fancy going up when he stood ready with crossbow. A shield would help. Perhaps a plank from the wall.
I hesitated, picturing Kariel waiting for the toll of the bell. Anger-eyed, sad-winged; ready to curse the bloody vale and leave us to our ways. I didn’t want her to leave. But hurry here meant death. And the wait would be short. I judged my cousins quick thinkers, but impatient. One or the other must soon yawn, come tiptoeing to check the trap.
But no, they’d grown wise. Tempered, I suppose. I waited long; at last heard Emily chuckle below, smelled the lamp oil pouring out. Came the whoosh of flame and I stood sudden in a chimney, hot fire below. She’d force me on and up to the crossbow then. I took knife, pried a board from the wall. Bound it with my shirt, rushed up the stairs. Edgar fired soon as I stood framed in the doorway. A good shot; hit my shield straight. Uncle Will would have aimed for the head, ended it there.
I dropped shield, struck with saber. Edgar laughed, retreated as he could. Little space for fencing. We circled about the hole in the room’s center. The belfry frame hung in pieces. Someone had taken the damned bell? Not Edgar; he’d no time to do such a thing. But I’d come on a fool’s errand. Angered, I chased my cousin round that absence of a bell. Keeping my head. I counted Edgar competent with foot and fist. Best not let him grapple.
More blade-work. No long story. I cut Edgar, forced him into the stairway, tumbled him down to flames. He did some screaming. I tossed the friendship token after him. Then climbed out the belfry onto the roof. Deciding how best to come at Emily. She wouldn’t face me with sword; it’d be pistol or knife. I stood on the roof whilst the belfry collapsed. Heard Emily scream. Surprised she hadn’t fled the hall. Perhaps it was ruse? No, more like she’d stayed to tend what was left of Edgar. You never saw two creatures so close. Made the heart happy just to see them breathe, each a shadow to the other.
I stood on the roof, watching fires here and there about the valley. Spied mad figures waving swords and spears. I tried to count how many cousins remained. Couldn’t. They flitted like shadows at a witches’ Sabbath, chasing in and out of light and dark, laughing, screaming.
I looked up, spied a last lone creature. The silhouette of Kariel against moon-white clouds. Firelight turning each feather of her wings to a separate leaf of flame. She was a thing of wonder, set alone in the sky. Flying higher and away. Vanishing, gone.
Chapter 10
You Come to a Hall with Three Doors
I sit at the hearth beside Keeper, my old master. Observing the Watch drag bodies away. Melancholy sight. Three fellows who walked in as men. They leave as cart burdens for the dockside deadhouse. Clothed
for now; but they’ll arrive as they were born. Naked, or near-abouts. Jewelry, weapons and garments stripped on the way. If no relative claims the bodies by sunset, teeth and hair shall be stole by sun’s rise. What clay still remains will pass to the potter’s field, else through cellar door to surgeon’s table for cold study in slicing.
Though perhaps they’ll wheel Rayne Gray’s remains to his house. He being notorious for wealth and public disturbance. They’ll demand handsome pay in exchange for the body. Luck to ‘em. How would anyone take that corpse for my handsome person? Still, best hie me home myself, before Lalena be given shock.
But I can’t leave Keeper with quick fare-thee-well. He mourned my death, then caught to the ruse, knowing my voice across the years. Bless the man, he said naught to the watch, but winked blind eye. As I said, a tavern is an education. Keeper is one of two souls dear to my childhood self. When I think on it. But I don’t oft think on it. Nostalgia is not a spadassin habit, else we’d thrash in hot red Phlegethon before our obituary’s print date.
“What became of Griselda?” I ask.
Keeper chuckles. “She determined to join some Romanish sisterhood. Till in comes that baker whose daughter you chased about. Ruby, or some shiny thing. Baker gets on a knee, says ‘be mah next wife’. Gris’ throws nunnery to the streets, tavern to the dogs and marries his floury person the next morning.”
Ruby? Ah. Emerald. The news astounds. Griselda was stern denier of the flesh, and Emerald born worshiper of Mammon. “Griselda became Emerald’s step-mother? That sounds a powder-keg household.”
“So one hears,” nodded the man. “Truth, one hears ‘em from here, two streets down. Screaming over the price of bread and diamonds.”
The Mad Puritan has vanished. The Glocken still snores at the table, next to my abandoned eggs and bacon. Behold Father Time, dreaming of all acts upon the earth. I focus on Ed and Em. If they are Espada, they know I am not Chatterton. Do they care? Their family is dismissive of the naming of things. Perhaps they will embrace me for their dear relation. Granted, they are a clan famous for slaughtering dear relations.
Footsteps sound from the rooms above. The steady pacing I’d supposed to be Em’s mate. But Ed now busies himself mopping. Another madman remains upstairs. Not one who cared to descend for shots and shouts. Not as mad as that, then.
I watch Ed sweep muddy sawdust, mop the bloody floor. Shake my head in sympathy for the task. But better blood than vomit. I watch Em shut and bar the tavern door. “Let’s close custom for the morning,” she declares. Unless she means ‘close custom for the mourning’. Neither interpretation comforts. I require that door open for sudden departure. But her words do not seem addressed my way, only in nonchalant converse to the general air.
“Are you well here?” I ask Keeper. Perhaps I should lead him from this asylum. Heart and gut say life will come to running shortly.
“Aye,” he chuckles. “Have the cellar for my home now. Little need to see when naught has changed so many years.”
“Might be best you make your way there now,” I whisper.
Keeper’s face goes wise; he takes no fright. He shakes head. “Ah, Ray. I blame that damned old Dark. Took a good lad and filled his head with dreams of blood, quick as you filled his mug with ale.”
Likely so. Without Major Dark’s instruction and inspiration, I’d have married Emerald, become a baker. No, I’d have died sliced by Lejean’s knife. It was the Major who taught me how to hold a blade, face a foe. And it is his ghostly advice I hear now. Past time to run.
I weigh the room. No reason I cannot jump up and leave. Excepting how Ed keeps mopping twixt me and the barred door. More blood lies elsewhere, yet he labors steadily at that one lone puddle. Em stands at the bar, back to me, laying out cups for washing. Humming as she works at something before her. I recall the axe-faced man’s pistol, wonder who picked it up.
“Later, master,” I say, and rise, stretching in dramatic nonchalance. Waiting for pistol shot, furious attack with a mop. Instead there comes a sinister ‘click’. I turn to the clock on the mantel.
A door at the base opens. Then a second. From the first emerges the toy-man with hat and knife. He stumbles in comic antic. Out the second pops a whirling boy with saber, then a girl with axe, doll’s dress twirling. The hatted manikin flees them, darts within another door. The two pursue. Another door opens. Out comes the hatted man, accompanied now by toy-woman with yellow strings for hair. These two dance about, chased by the couple with axe and sword. Yet another door opens, a scarecrow figure emerges, holding hands with girl trailing tissue-paper angel wings. Now three couples dart in and out, clickety-clack across the clock face…
Something drops from the rafters, strikes the ground with a thump. I turn from the mad clock, glance at the floor where a book now lies. No title I know. But the distraction awakens my mind to the knowledge I have now kept my back to two bloody Espada for a full five seconds. Think, whispers the ghost of Major Dark. Run.
I sprint towards the stairs. The clock strikes its eerie chime, calling me to halt, come back, be audience to the dance of mad gears. At stair top I draw sword, pause, listening behind. No shots nor shouts, no sound of pursuit. But the clock tolls again, a metal touch to chill the spine.
Ahead to the right, three doors recalled from years past. I can kick open the middle one, force my way out a window, then leap down to the street. Else climb up to the roof. ‘Course they shall expect that. One will rush outside with pistol or crossbow. Ah, but I might double back down the stairs to face only one Espada...
Three doors? No, behold a fourth set at passage’s end. Never was before. Plain wood, bronze handle, antique lock. Mate to the Glocken’s time-greened key? ‘Course it is. I scramble through pockets, find the ominous thing. Insert, twist, click. Pocket the key, shove door open, sword point forward for the next foe.
Only to stare as I did before the mad clock. Fascinated, uncomprehending. Behold a dark hallway, inconceivably long. Stone-flagged, sides lined with mysterious doors. But this hall is impossible. Behind the tavern stands mere warehouse; beyond that open street, then the river…
The clock chime tolls again. I hear footsteps; not on the stairs, but behind the middle door. Mechanical steps, ominous as hangman’s boots approaching the gallows. I turn my back to the impossible hall, facing this new threat. The middle door opens.
A figure appears. A clockwork man come life-size and free of the doll-house clock. Thick of legs, waspish waist, head a round brass ball. Two metal rods for arms, hinged with circular joints. Bronze claws for hands. The right clasps a saber, which it waves it metronomic threat.
I face this thing, knowing my back is to the dark hall and whatever menaces it holds. Sounds on the stairs now. I catch the sound of Em laughing, of Ed muttering. The mechanical man turns his brass ball-head towards me, focusing two bottle-lens eyes. It steps forwards, foot making the floor shake. I consider lunging with my rapier. Where to aim? Could it be pierced?
Of a sudden the obituary in my pocket is a grave-mold kiss to my shuddering soul. ‘violent death… perished in the very establishment where first he shed mortal blood... I picture the man with face shot away, dragged out as meat for the deadhouse rats. The clock below chimes. The mechanical man approaches. The Espadas tiptoe up the stairs, laughing. I must fight now, else run.
I leap through the doorway into the uncanny hall. Leaving light behind. I stumble forwards, sword at point, hand upon the wall. Turn to look behind, see the clockwork man silhouetted in the doorframe. Stepping slow and inevitable as fate, in no hurry, turning not left nor right.
I panic as I never would against mortal foe. Hurry blindly forwards, hand on the wall, blade out before me. When fingers find a door handle I push. It opens, I stumble through.
Chapter 11
Of Picnics and Second Chances
After flames ate my old home, I rebuilt. Expensive, but I’d come into absurd treasure. I purchased the neighboring houses, joined them to my ruins. From these pie
ces I built a city-house to impress political allies, alarm personal foes. The result alarmed me more than any enemy. I lived now in a labyrinth of connecting rooms without clear purpose, halls and stairways wandering hither and yon from mystery onto mystery. I’d built a metaphor of my new life. Perhaps of my new mind.
Oft, it reminded of the mad castle where Lalena and I honeymooned. A glorious time, I point out. Granted, when not wrapped tight in the arms and legs of my bride, that Scott castle had been cold, damp and dark. Haunted by damned ghosts, double-damned haunted by triple-damned in-laws.
While my great new house stood warm, dry, modern, and also haunted by in-laws. How did they get in? Any way that best suited their dramatic natures. They’d knock polite at the front door, else creep sly through the back. Down chimneys on occasion, or up from the basements. Whatever the manner of entry, the newcomer would be greeted within by cousin shouts and curses, bows and curtsies, embraces and formal titles woven fresh from moonshine words of fairy breath.
“Excuse me, Master,” might say the Grumble, grave as cemetery gravel. “There is a gentleman at the door wearing a flaming hat. He answers to no English, but waves hands about expressively. I believe he requests entry.”
“Oh, that will be Uncle Hatta,” Lalena would remark. “He makes those flaming things. Water hats as well. And great flowering hats, and hats with trained mice that dance on the brim. He wanders the roads with all his stock, though scarce a soul buys except to make him smile.”
I would stare at the Grumble, and she at me, our silent meeting of eyes asking how the world stood so solid and stone a thing, and yet mere knock upon the door turned it mad dream?
“See him in,” I’d tell Mistress Grumble. “But mind he keeps from the drapes.”
The Clockwork Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans Page 6