The Brass God

by K. M. McKinley

  Forfeth watched it in terror. He could not escape. Sea drays bounded past him, forcing him to dodge. He dropped his gun. In pursuit of the fleeing animals, the dragon didn’t see Forfeth and caught him a glancing blow so hard he flew with a scream through the air. He landed badly. Then it saw him. The dragon waddled to stand over this strange creature. It arched its back and cocked its head, watching Forfeth drag his broken leg behind him. Spray blasted from the nostrils atop its skull. It ignored the men crowding it, shouting at it and waving their arms, and gave Forfeth an experimental lick. Liking what it tasted, it stabbed its long snout at Forfeth, snatched him up in its teeth, and shook him until his bones snapped. It threw him up in the air, caught him, and extended its neck, ready to gulp him down like a gull swallows a fish.

  Guns banged. The sea dragon screeched, dropping Forfeth and curling around to turn upon its attackers. A long serpentine tail bearing forked flukes lashed out, catching Favreau in the chest and propelling him so high he slammed into the beached iceberg and thumped lifelessly to the ground.

  The second dragon responded to the screams of the first, and carved a broad trail of ruin through the sea dray’s rookery, directly toward the hunting party, flinging pebbles everywhere with powerful thrusts of its muscular flippers. Eggs smashed. Dracon-skuas sped past it, to snatch up the feast leaking into the beach.

  Ilona’s bullet tore a long red furrow in the dragon’s shoulder. Blood slicked its pale blue scales black. Like the first it showed no pain, all Ilona achieved was to gain its attention. Its head snaked around; it gaped and hissed and sped at her, flippers propelling it through the rookery at frightening speed.

  Her fingers were numb. She fumbled her next bullet from an ammo pouch on her bandolier. It fell into the sand.

  The dragon was yards away. A gun went off. A small crater appeared in the beast’s side, veiled by a puff of blood.

  A body collided with her, slamming her out of the dragon’s path. Next she knew, she was face down, spitting wet sand.

  Guns were going off everywhere. The dragon screamed. She rolled over to see it thrashing in a hail of bullets. Persin advanced on it, calmly shooting and reloading, aiming for the head. Still it would not die, until Ardovani’s gun shone its beam of death, cutting at an angle through its neck. Abruptly it fell silent, its head flopped to one side. The stench of burned flesh and feathers washed over her. A jet of blood fountained high, thick as water from a hose, and the dragon fell dead.

  She got up, fished her gun out of a bed of snow. Her fingers burned with the cold. The metal was chill as the ice.

  Men were running to the fallen. As far as she could see, Forfeth was dead, as was Favreau. Two of the dogs were down, a third whimpered, trying to rise but failing. The first dragon was shrieking, snapping at the men shooting at it. It snatched up a dead sea dray and bounded toward the water, disappearing back into the waves smoothly as a knife into flesh.

  Bannord was shouting something, but she couldn’t tell what. There was nothing wrong with her hearing, but she seemed to have lost command of human speech. The thunder of blood in her ears took precedence over all. Her breath rushed in and out, as if her body were shouting, I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive.

  Someone lay pinned under the dead dragon. She ran toward them.

  Darrasind was trapped beneath the beast’s head, impaled on the spines curving back from its jaw. His face was drained of colour. A slow red stain crept through the snow. It was beautiful, like a talented murderer’s depiction of a sunset.

  “Hold on! Hold on!” she said. She dropped to her knees. Diluted blood, already chilled, soaked through her trousers.

  “I’m dying.” He coughed. Dark blood welled through his lips. “I’m dying.”

  “You saved my life.”

  He reached up and touched her arm gently. “I am sorry about before. On the ship. You are so pretty. I never saw anyone so pretty as you. Got drunk... Only way... I could ask for a kiss... Man died because of it...” His words hitched, his breath gurgled in his chest. Pink blood frothed around the spine penetrating his side. “Do you think... do you think... could you give me that kiss now? It’s funny... but I... but I... never... kissed... anyone... before...”

  She smiled through her tears, and nodded. She swept her hair from her face, and bent over his head, and planted a kiss on his bloodied mouth.

  He smiled. His eyes closed.

  “Ilona, come away, come away!” Ardovani hauled her back from Darrasind’s corpse. “Lost gods, you’re covered in blood. Are you hurt? Are you hurt?” He shook her. She pushed him off.

  “I’m fine. It’s all Darrasind’s,” she managed.

  The barking of the sea drays lessened. They were returning to their nests at a frantic pace, hoping to warm their eggs before life radiated away.

  Feet crunched on pebbles. Her eyes were locked on Darrasind’s dead face. His dark hair stirred in the sea wind.

  “We were lucky the dragons were immature,” she heard Bannord saying to Ardovani. “If either had been as big as the one we saw on the voyage, we’d all be dead. Get the meat. Collect the eggs. Leave the dragons. Too big.”

  “What about the ivory?” someone asked.

  “Leave it!” shouted Bannord. “And don’t start skinning them here, Aretimus! For fuck’s sake. Gut the sea drays, get them on the sleds! That bastard might come back.”

  A single shot ended the injured dog’s whining. Valatrice and the others began to howl.

  Ilona wiped Darrasind’s blood from her face. Her knees were cold. The sea drays were loud. The dogs sang in grief. Surf pounded the shore. Dracon-skuas cawed. So many vital stimuli entered her mind, but she was aware only of death.

  “Are you alright?” Ardovani said. He pulled her to her feet and peered anxiously into her eyes.

  “I’m a soldier now. People die. I’ve seen plenty of death on this voyage. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She nodded. She recovered her gun, and helped secure the meat to the sleds as best she could, though she remained numbed until they were pulling away from the rookery.

  Ilona could taste Darrasind’s death on her lips all the way back to the camp.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Two Instances of Skullduggery

  A FEW DAYS after returning from the Three Sisters, Arkadian Vand sent for his chief of spies.

  He was eating an apple when Filden entered his office. An innocent enough act he thought, for a man bent on murder. Zeruvias’ passing had required a lot of work to cover up satisfactorily. His men were easy to lie to; the ones that weren’t fooled could be bribed, the ones that couldn’t be bribed could be intimidated.

  Still, he was left with two issues to be resolved. The matter of the child for the machine was the first; the second being Jolyon. Neither solution was pleasant, hence his thoughts of apples and innocence. There was nothing inherently blameless about the fruit, but in the past he had considered that someone bent on black deeds should not be able to do anything but fixate upon them. Surely an evil man would not eat, or drink. He would do nothing but plot his wickedness.

  And yet there he was, eating his apple.

  Vand wondered, Am I wicked?

  Filden was old, in his later fifties Vand would have said. He didn’t actually know, because Filden was protective of his personal information. Vand could have found out, but Filden was the man he employed to find things out for him, so there was little chance any enquiry, no matter how discreet, would go unnoticed.

  Seven years had gone by since Filden had come to work for Vand. He’d been highly recommended by one of Vand’s less pleasant contacts. Filden had done something in the army. Filden wouldn’t say what, but Vand knew it was unpleasant. If Vand had been a little less self confident, he would have been afraid of the man. Most sensible people were.

  Filden arrived wearing the green and white suit that wasn’t a uniform but looked like one. Green and white was the Vand Company colour. Vand liked to refer to
Filden as his personal army. It was a joke Filden never laughed at, but the clothes and the deep scar running from under his left ear down his neck onto his chest meant he looked the part.

  Filden could handle both matters, Vand was quite sure.

  “Ah, Filden,” said Vand, as if he had not been expecting the ex-soldier. He concealed his disquiet at the events at the dig under officiousness. “I need you to drum up some of your old contacts. I’ve a couple of very sensitive assignments that need taking care of.”

  “Of course, goodfellow.”

  Filden clicked his heels and bowed sharply, the way a sauralier might. Vand liked to play a game with himself where he would attempt to guess where Filden had served. It made the old solider seem a little less intimidating. He might do one thing like a marine, another like an infantryman, a third like an artilleryman.

  Vand needed him to be an assassin.

  “Cavalry today is it?” said Vand.

  “Might I inquire as to the nature of the assignments?”

  Vand did not answer straightaway, but took a bite of his apple. He gave Filden an appraising look as he chewed and swallowed. He debated which was the least unpalatable task.

  “You’re not going to get squeamish are you?”

  Filden glanced at his employee. “It depends on what you are asking me to do, goodman.”

  “I need you to find a child.” Vand sat forward quickly. Now decided, his usual firmness reasserted itself. “A very specific child.” He took another loud bite of his apple, and spoke through the pulp. “It’s not what you might think. I’m not one of those.”

  “If you were, goodman, it would not be my concern.”

  “Well I’m not. Watch your tongue,” Vand said more sharply than he intended.

  “I make no judgement while I am on your payroll. Who is this child?”

  “That’s it, I don’t know,” said Vand. He took a final bite of his apple, leaving only the core. “It’s a particular type of child rather than a particular child.”

  “Without further information, I cannot do anything personally for you. You are considering magical assistance?”

  “I should say so. You know that shady magister, whatshisname. Can he help? I won’t ask Hissenwar.”

  “Dequince?” said Filden. “He’s not so shady he’ll hunt for children. He won’t touch anything like this, and he’d talk.”

  “And still no mages?”

  “No mages, goodman.”

  Vand sighed angrily. “Damn it. Well, someone needs to do it.” He twirled the apple stalk between thumb and forefinger, setting it spinning. “Let me be straight with you Filden, if I assume I have your confidence?”

  “The utmost, goodman, as always.”

  “The machine I uncovered. We opened it. It requires a pilot of some sort.”

  “Like a boat?”

  “No, not like a boat. More like a driver for a drayless glimmer wagon, but it’s not so simple as that.”

  Filden, who was used to both sensitive assignments and those that made little sense, waited for Vand to gather his thoughts. There was little the machine or the Guider had given him to go upon.

  “There is a bloodline, I suppose, of what sort I am as yet unsure. Not only do I require a child, but I need somebody who can help me find which kind. Tell me, do you know anyone who might make a start on this?”

  “How far are you willing to go?” asked Filden quietly.

  “Oh?” said Vand, his interest piqued. “It’s not like you to be circumspect, Filden.”

  “There are things I do not care to meddle with, goodman, but there is one who might help. A Tyn, someone who I employ when... occasion demands. He is a tool of necessity, to be employed wisely, if at all.”

  “A Tyn?”

  “A Free Tyn, collarless. A finder, to be exact. That’s what he calls his profession, though finding is not all he does.”

  Vand smiled craftily. “Are you frightened of him?”

  Filden gave him a reptilian look. “I used the first time on the advice of a Fethrian warlock. There was a matter of missing pay in the barracks. He found it alright, but the situation turned ugly owing to certain irregularities. I swore I wouldn’t use him again. This fellow, shall we call him, told me otherwise. Sure enough, I had need of him not long after.”

  “You are at least wary of him then.”

  Filden looked uncomfortable. “I have killed men. I have done worse than that. I do not care for the law when it gets in the way of great effort. I obey you because I respect you, and I agree with what you are trying to accomplish. But this Tyn. .. Yes, I am wary of him.”

  “Why suggest him at all then, Filden?”

  Filden abandoned his habitual stance at attention and looked his employer directly in his face.

  “I would not suggest him if I could think of anyone else who would find what you need. He’ll know what you require better than you do, and he’ll get it done quickly.”

  “Speed is to be desired. What’s his name?”

  “Goodman, as with all of these things involving the Tyn, what appears straightforward is not. What it calls itself... it’s not his name. I suppose it’s a title. Or a black joke.”

  “Get to the point. Tell me the thing’s name.”

  Filden shook his head. “I will not utter it, because I do not need him. I will write it down for you, then you must say it. As soon as you do he will become aware of you. Let me stress, goodman, to have him aware of you is no good thing. He must be controlled, he cannot control you, or he will be your undoing. He can find things no one else can, he knows things no one else does, and he will sell them, if it pleases him to do so. His geas are many. Unlike some Tyn, he will deliberately try to trick you into breaking them, and even if you avoid that, his prices are very high, and often unconventional.”

  “Marvellous,” said Vand. He leaned back onto his desk and put his feet carelessly onto a pile of plans. “Is there anyone else?”

  “You want this done quickly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then no, there is no one else. I will tell you his name only if you are certain you want this now. I am sure we can hit upon other options, given time.”

  “I have none, you have none, but...” Vand leaned back in his chair and toyed with his apple core, his face thoughtful. “I want to bring this engine to life. It would be a triumph. More so when I learn its secrets and reproduce them. And I will get there before that bastard Persin can return from the south blowing his trumpet. If he returns.”

  “So you do want me to tell you the name?”

  “Yes, yes damn it man, spit it out!”

  Finden gestured for paper and pen. Vand’s feet slammed onto the floor. He shoved a sheet at Filden and indicated he use the ink pot and pen set on his desk. Filden scribbled the name fast, as if he couldn’t get it down quickly enough. He tore off a strip of the paper and held it out in front of his master. “If you desire to use him, then say it aloud. You will never find him by other means.”

  Vand reached out. Filden hesitated a moment before handing the paper over. Vand snatched it from his man and immediately read it out. “The Sniffer? The Sniffer? What the hells kind of name is that?”

  A strange fancy settled on them that there was suddenly something else in the room. Both men looked up, breath held.

  Nothing happened. The day went on as normal. Dogs barked in the street, the wagons they pulled rattled over the cobbles.

  Vand laughed loudly, the way men do when an expected fright does not materialise.

  “By the driven gods, Filden! I thought the bloody thing would pop out of the privy, tootling on his pipe!”

  “It is not wise to joke about him,” said Filden, but he felt foolish, Vand could tell.

  “I’m glad we got that out of the way, because there is something else you need to do, and this is arguably harder, if not so distasteful. I thought I’d build up to it, because it is a difficult request to make, but you’ve rather taken the buoyancy out of the float
stone.”

  “And what is that, sir?”

  Vand paused. He had considering how to put his request. He knew Filden would do it, or else he wouldn’t ask. Ordering the death of a man was never easy.

  “I’ll just say it baldly,” said Vand. “Filden, I need you to kill the Guider, Jolyon.”

  “Very good, goodman.”

  Vand nodded solemnly.

  “This is a grim business Filden, but I see no other way. We must think of the future.”

  “As you say, goodman,” said Filden. He executed a short bow and departed.

  Vand stared into the middle distance, thinking on the exigencies of success. “It can’t be helped,” he told himself. Shaking himself from his reflection he consumed the apple core, stalk, bitter pips and all. He was a man who took everything from life he could, good and bad.

  WHY VAND WANTED Jolyon dead didn’t matter to Filden. Vand did not advance an explanation, and Filden did not ask for one. A life of following orders, mostly unsavoury in nature, had blunted what little curiosity he once had. Filden genuinely did respect Vand. However, unlike Vand, who needed approval and praise, and pursued his engineering and archeological plundering for the acclaim as much as the wealth, for Filden money was a greater motivator than any form of respect, whether given or received.

  Filden liked money. He did not look it, but he was a rich man already, with hundreds of thousands of thalers secreted in the banks of four different kingdoms. He had planned to earn a small fortune and retire young. The problem with small fortunes is that, once acquired, it is rarely fortune enough. Filden wanted more. His ambitions for a townhouse in Perus became dreams of a castle in Marceny; one young lover became several, and so the desire for tens of thousands became the need for hundreds of thousands. By the time he was thirty-six, he had exceeded his original goal. He did not stop. From his forties onward he continued to accumulate money. Every fortune gained was the catalyst for greater avarice, until the gathering of wealth became the end rather than the means, and his dreams receded into memory.