The Clockwork Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  “I am not mad,” affirmed Edgar. “And Em is, is near sane. Were it easy as shouting ‘pax’ I’d be weeding a cottage garden now, while she hummed hymns in the kitchen. But Chatterton Espada, admit truth. Do you not walk the vale by dream? Stand before the wall of stars again, hear the call to challenge? Awake, do you not feel every heartbeat a hammer-blow of the Tempering? Close your eyes, do you not catch the pride-shine of our dead elders’ faces, the love of every last cousin you defeated?”

  “Most nights,” admitted Chatterton. It was news to me. But he wasn’t one for sharing. If he didn’t keep carving a girl’s face in my table tops, one’d suppose Chat felt no more sorrow in life than a mechanical man.

  “We cannot walk away,” declared Edgar. “Not I, not Em, not you. The clan made us so, same as the Clockmakers build their offspring. To call halt now would be but to say ‘I lament your deaths, dear ones, but I’ve found other game.’”

  Chatterton shook head, opened mouth… but could find no argument within. I observed his back. Tensing. Well, he wanted to fight his cousin. Not to debate, not to doubt. Edgar nodded, seeing the same. No doubt he knew Chatterton’s nature far better than I.

  “But the Glocken has given us this chance to end the Tempering. With your death. Or ours. And then…” Edgar took breath, inhaling the air of hope. “And then at last we begin anew.” He considered, reckoning up any last details. “Oh, and in return I’m to finish the mad outsider.”

  He looked past Chatterton, gave me an absent wave. I nodded, waved back, why not.

  “And what of your girl?” Edgar asked. “The one with the sometimes wings?”

  That caught Chat unawares. “How do you know of her?”

  Edgar’s turn to scratch chin. A family habit, clearly. A rural gesture indicating slow, deep thought. I pictured their lost valley of lanky fighters, scratching chins as they considered the methodology of homicide.

  “We all knew, you ass,” said Edgar. “How not, with you walking all moony-eyed, muttering her name?” He made eyes go wide and wild, mimed a stagger. I smothered laugh. He waved sword, addressing me now.

  “Oh, Chat’s girl would tiptoe about the roofs, spying and scowling till we’d pause even a death-bout to enjoy the sight of the creature’s legs poking out from behind a chimney. Else dangling from a tree branch. Outsider, it was the chief gossip all through the last days of the valley.” Edgar grinned. “I wagered with Uncle Will that some morning we’d find feathers in Chat’s bed.”

  “You prurient, gossiping beasts,” declared Chat. His saber twitched, a cat tail annoyed. But battle did not commence yet. He took calming breath.

  “As for Kariel…” He scratched chin. “She’d supposed I’d slaughtered you both, choosing the Tempering over her. In truth I thought the same. But now I also have chance to begin anew. If I refrain from killing you, she must stop swearing and spitting each time she spies my person.”

  The two weighed their cards, the prizes on the table.

  “Ah, then if you slay me you lose your love,” decided Edgar.

  “And if you kill me you win your peace,” judged Chat.

  “To it, then,” said Edgar. And waited.

  “Exactly,” said Chatterton. And waited.

  Edgar sighed, then leaped slashing. Not taking Chat unawares. He parried, kicked. Edgar retreated, backing into the dark. Chat followed. I disliked that. It had the flavor of trap prepared. Was it my place to interfere? No reason I couldn’t kill Edgar, spare Chat the blame.

  From the corridor behind came the sound of running feet, panting breath. I turned, beheld a figure running swift down the hall. Emily, eyes wide, mouth open. Hair flying for a banner worthy of a host of ghosts.

  She showed no weapon, but I’d not let her come up behind Chatterton. I moved to bar the way, sword ready. And yes, I’d have cut her down. She saw it so, and halted, looking behind. A glimmer of bronze shone far behind her. I heard the tramp of mechanical feet. Well, if it were the clockwork killer I’d not be so impressed as before.

  “Best be getting out the path,” said Em. “That’s the sound of death, it is.”

  “Death be damned,” I spat. “Where’s my mug for coffee, and fork for eggs?”

  She stamped foot, waved hands. “Damn your breakfast! Flee from what comes upon us!”

  “Didn’t even bring cream,” I recalled. “Which requires spoon, I point out.” I stared into the dark behind Em. The glimmer of bronze became a figure marching stately as siege engine to city gates. Not another mechanical spadassin. Behold a bronze centaur, tramping upon four legs. I counted six arms, each waving a blade of different length. The eyes winked a cheerful red.

  “Three silvers to be given only sight and scent of breakfast,” I brooded. “And not a bite nor sip. God be thanked that Keeper sat blind, else he’d see how you treated his customers.”

  Em put hands to hips, narrowed eyes in study of my mind and soul. “All on a sudden I am recollecting mention of a certain mad outsider.”

  Noise from behind. I did not turn to see, but judged best I could by the sounds of blade and step. Chatterton backing towards myself and the lamp.

  “Your cousin Emily is here,” I told him, not turning. “She is followed by a bronze… spider centaur? Laugh not. It waves all kinds of blades. Will arrive, by and by.”

  “Oh?” said Chat. “Heard of such. Dangerous beasties, more so than the two-legged ones. The Glocken sets them wandering the hall. I hear more approaching from my side of things.”

  Em made a feint to dodge past me. I menaced, she retreated. The spider-centaur marched closer. Was it her ally? Or would it cut her down? Steam puffed out its nostrils. A clever touch. Perhaps I might leap upon its back as I had upon a giant wolf. I could think of no reason to do so, but how could one resist? But no, spikes lined the spine. Another clever touch. No riding that steed.

  “Good Espadas,” I shouted. “Will you not consider quarrel’s end before we perish in this nightmare realm?”

  “We have no quarrel,” said Edgar.

  “And shall call no halt,” said Em, crossing arms, tossing chin in defiance for the death-machine coming up behind her. She bit lip. And that was over much, that she should stand so in resemblance to Lalena. I stepped up beside her.

  “Sweet man,” she said, arching brows. “Going to protect me from the beast?”

  Em leaned close to plant kiss upon cheek. I did not look for the knife. Did I need to? I blocked the strike, shoved her back. She fell to the ground, the spider-centaur marching upon her.

  Edgar must have seen, for he shouted. I hesitated. Emily was a perilous thing. Charming, in her way. Full of life as of death, and still grasping knife. Now she lay studying the machine, readying herself to roll beneath its steps. I moved forwards to distract some of the blades. At which point a blast went through the hall. My ears rang, while bits of bronze flew about.

  At first I assumed the thing exploded. I’d once ridden a similar toy of the Clockmakers, leapt off just before fireworks. The spider centaur stopped, reduced to headless statue gasping steam, bleeding oil. Em lay pinned beneath, one great claw pressing upon her skinny bosom. She stared up, tapped the leg with her knife. The taps sending pleasant bell-like sounds through the hall. Well, she was playing a tune. Composed on the spot, like enough. ‘Song beneath bronze hoof’.

  “I am missing the play behind me,” complained Chatterton. “What is happening?”

  “Em tried to stab me, I shoved her beneath the centaur spider. Someone came up behind with a shotgun and blew its head away. By the sound they are reloading.”

  “Who?”

  Someone with great white wings and look of angered storm, I thought to say, decided not. “You handle this end for a bit,” I suggested. “I’ll entertain Cousin Edgar.”

  Chatterton leaped back, I leaped back, turning about as we passed. Edgar cursed this change of dance partners, then laughed. He lashed down a storm of quick strikes. I set about to kill him.

  Saber tempts a soul tow
ards great dramatic slashes. I prefer foil, generally settle for rapier. I did not underestimate Edgar. Surprisingly, he did not undervalue me. I’d grown accustomed to my in-laws thinking me a bumbling clay-souled bear. But Edgar parried, watched, measured, tested same as I. At length his burn-whitened face frowned.

  “This is family business, sir,” he declared, stepping back. “Remove your person.”

  “Shan’t,” I replied. “Anyway you promised to kill me for the Glocken.”

  “Fair point,” he admitted. Took a measured step sideways. “Can you see what makes that din behind me? I was expecting allies by now, of a tick-tock sort.”

  I peered into the distance. I saw a crowd of bronze men, as Chatterton reported. But they’d stopped their march to deal with something unintended. Or it dealt with them. Ding, clatter, bang… here came a bronze head rolling along, stopping at Edgar’s feet, staring up in pop-eyed wonder.

  I prepared to use this distraction. But then I was distracted. Emily tumbled past me, came to feet beside her man. Each reached to clasp the others’ hand. Now he stood facing me, while she faced what came behind. Another bronze head rolled down the hall, spinning.

  Kariel stalked up beside me. Wings folded for a disordered cloak. Slender arms holding a shotgun. If it had been silver-plated I’d have laughed. As is, I only nodded a worried welcome. This was not the calm creature I knew. Hair tangled and wild, each breath a panted grab for air. The wings upon her back twitched, unable to settle. Chatterton appeared alongside her, looking uncomfortable. No holding hands between those two. We three faced the scarred face of Edgar, the pleasant backside of Emily.

  Whatever came down the hall made quick meal of the clockwork men. Sending cog wheels rolling to announce its approach. Excellent. It would fall first upon the couple before us. We three need but keep them from flight. Edgar considered the board, concluded the same. When he spoke, it was to Kariel.

  “I am pleased to meet at last my cousin’s fixation,” he said with slight bow. “But shame upon an angel menacing a man. Double shame that you hold gun upon us. Affronts your lord and maker in Heaven.”

  Kariel growled, tossed back hair and wings. “My lord and maker stands nearer to me now than Heaven,” she spat. “And for all that he’s an idiot, he’s mine. Leave him henceforth out your games, you damned dreamy dancing murderous fools. Else I send you both to tempering in Hell.”

  Chatterton turned to Kariel. “What?” he asked. “Maker? What?”

  She shook head. Her eyes shone tear-bright by lamp’s shine. It hurt to see that. I had never known her discomfited. Edgar and Emily exchanged a look, making quick decision upon the question: surrender? He shook head.

  “No,” he said.

  There came silence, and the expectation of coming death. I interrupted both.

  “Why did Emily save me from the killers in the tavern?”

  Faces turned to me, surprised I had lines in the play, if not wondering what I even did on stage.

  “Did she now?” Edgar asked. “Hasn’t happened yet, that I recall.”

  “The fellow insisted I hadn’t brought him a fork for his eggs,” observed Emily. “I was quite confused. Now it all stands revealed sensible as a tub filled to brim with math professors.” She did not turn, but kept eyes on what marched down the hall. Another bronze mechanism, with rider. I knew both soon as they came into the light. One was bronze myth; the other brave lady.

  The myth: a clockwork beast with three heads. Rising, lowering, snapping in time to its mechanical steps. An automaton Cerberus, jaws of the middle head still munching the arm of a mechanical man, as any hound might a bone. Upon its back perched a tall woman in silk dress, hair combed to perfection.

  Behold my bride, my wife, the mother of my someday daughters. Making entrance entirely suitable for such noble titles. I laughed; then bowed in welcome. Keeping eye upon the killers between us.

  Chapter 17

  Three Couples

  When I first entered the tavern, obituary in pocket, I intended to take my ease describing my part in the Great Reforming of the Laws of Labor and Representation. Between descriptions of Magisterium debates and Aldermen’s Council intrigues, I planned comic anecdotes of my in-laws’ fantastical customs, their mad inner theatre. Soon returning to the complexities of Industrial Progress, referring as needed to the insights of Adam Smith, the verse of William Blake.

  I was slow to see the story went elsewhere. The threat to the New Charter became a minor skirmish, off-curtain. ‘Mastery of the Clans’ remained a grail I refused to seek; for all the mysterious villains plotting to hinder the quest. This tale has not been about politics, whether magical or mundane. Damnation, I’ve scarce even touched upon tax reform.

  It’s about marriage. As the Glocken’s clever timepiece shewed in Keeper’s tavern, couples run through this ‘once upon a time’. Pursuing, fleeing, stumbling in and out a dance best viewed as clockwork comedy. Myself and Lalena. Her cousin Chatterton, his lost love Kariel. And the charmingly murderous Emily and Edgar. What passes with these six makes the main of what story I have to tell. All else? Mere sound and thunder, good for dramatic backdrop.

  It’s a damned pity. I know all about Just Labor Laws and Tax Reform, Representation of the Commons and the immediate needs of a kingdom facing the dread new age of Industrial Promise. But if marriage is a kingdom, I have scarce crossed the border. Don’t know the language yet, nor half the customs. Haven’t even seen a map.

  * * *

  What came next in the Hall of Time, passed quick. Though difficult to describe.

  “Cousins,” said Lalena.

  “Who is it?” asked Edgar, keeping eyes upon Chat, Kariel and myself.

  “Well, it is Lady Anna Helena of the Mac Sanglair herself and no other,” Emily informed him. “Haven’t seen her since she and I were small as small as small. Now she rides a bronze hell-beastie. It’s ate up the clockwork men we were hoping upon.” She shook head in solemn disapproval, then giggled. “Oh, but the Glocken shall wax wroth.”

  “Worse wrath is upon you now,” observed Lalena. Excellent words; I thought it her signal to charge the automaton hell-beastie upon the two. It’d eat them up. Then Chat would embrace his mollified angel and we’d all go have breakfast. In Utopia, perhaps.

  But no, Lalena jumped from the bronze Cerberus, lithe as child from hobby horse. She stood before Emily and her knife. I moved to prevent this. Edgar waved saber to halt me. I prepared to kill him. Kariel put the shotgun butt to shoulder, took aim.

  But Lalena kept voice calm. Showing bright smile, if overly sharp of tooth. Eyes two black coins for Charon’s ferry, hair rippling slightly to her own inner storm.

  “You stand between me and mine, Emily Elizabeth,” declared Lalena. “Will you strike me as I pass?”

  “Have we quarrel, Anna Helena?” asked Emily. Not a tremble in voice nor frame. “None I know. Pass, sister, if you wish.”

  Lalena nodded, stepping to the left of Emily. Em did not strike. Lalena walked by, taking no more hurry than passing through the door of her house. She stepped to me, and when we clasped hands I began to breathe again.

  Emily turned about, faced us. Two against four. Excellent odds. Why had Lalena left her mechanical monster? I leaned close to inspect my wife. A determined look upon her face, but no more nor fewer years than expected. Same fresh cut across the cheek, blue silk dress. Excellent. From the same door of time as myself, or near-abouts.

  “We have met, haven’t we?” I whispered. Best be sure.

  She squeezed my hand, giving slight smile. But keeping eyes upon the Espada. They stood before us, reflecting us. A man and woman holding hands. Edgar tilted the scarred side of his face just slightly towards me. He knew I prepared to attack. He shifted weight to back foot. Em brushed stray hair from her face with the knife. And then something shook the hall.

  A low tremor shook the floor. A slow ripple, as though all the world were an iron bell, just struck. An image came to mind. Picture a giant door at
the very bottom of existence. A portal tall as cathedral spire, locked with a thousand chains and bars. Now the bars fall, now the chains drop. And the great door swings open, deliberate and unstoppable as the progress of the planets. Opens to release some creature whose first step shakes the ground…

  “What the hell?” asked Edgar, glancing about.

  “What was that?” inquired Chatterton. Puzzled as usual.

  “The storm upon you,” declared Lalena. “Fulgurous himself.”

  “Was his the wrath you mentioned?” asked Emily. “Thought it’d be something twixt us.”

  “Oh bother the old lizard,” scoffed Edgar. “He’s dust.” Brave words, lessened by quick look behind him. I might have lunged then, taken him in the guts. I did not.

  “You stand in the Hall of Time, where what was, still is.” said Lalena. “And you intend kin slaughter?”

  “As do you,” retorted Emily. “Setting your mad consort upon us. Behold him readying to skewer my poor Ed soon as blink.”

  I felt an urge to lower sword and deny this. I did not. Lalena crossed arms, stamped foot in echo to the floor tremor.

  “Emily Elizabeth, Edgar Allan,” she said. “Surrender now. Declare all challenge at end. And swear you will do no harm to mine. Else you perish.”

  “Ah, but you are looking warm and bright as the day, Anna Helena” replied Emily, cheerful as crow in spring rain, and as sensible. “Grown to woman in sunshine since we met.”

  Lalena nodded. She’d not expected sane reply. “When did we meet before, cousin?”

  Emily tapped knife to nose tip, recalling. “’Twas that revel in the forest with all those trees,” she declared. “By an old wooden church? Lights like fairy bugs set all about like, like bugs of the fairies. Such a glow, the dancers whirling and stepping like, like schools of fish.”

  “Not quite, love” said Edgar. “It was that gathering in sea caves of deepest dream, when the laird of the Mac Mur married a Sea Fae.”