The Brass God

by K. M. McKinley

  Donati knelt by the side of the bath and swished his hand through the dirty water.

  “You will get your clothes wet,” she said nervously.

  “I do not care!” he said dramatically. “The Morthrocks treat me well. I have many suits of clothes.” He looked sidelong at her dress. “Would you not like the same?”

  “I am glad for the uniform,” she replied.

  “I am a shift boss, do you know what that means?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will be joining my crew. There is prosperity here, for those with the right...” he smiled again. “Attitude.”

  “I work hard.”

  “There are other routes to riches than simple work. How old are you?” he said. He reached out and stroked a strand of hair away from her ear. “You are so very beautiful, a flower in the most glorious phase of womanhood.”

  Anything said to her had to struggle past the ringing barrier in her head, but though she did not hear every word, his meaning was clear.

  “In my land, a girl is a woman when she bleeds,” she said. “I started my bleeding two years ago.” She trembled under his touch, a mixture of unlooked for arousal and fear. “I think I am fourteen summers, maybe fifteen.”

  “A good age,” he said. “Here, in Karsa, a woman is not a woman until she is twenty-one years of age, no matter whether the blood flows or not. But who decides these things? Surely, if you can bear children, you are a woman? That is the way in my own land.”

  “What are you doing in here?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Can you not guess? You are not so young.”

  She pushed herself away from him and looked at the wall, willing him to go.

  “Which factory were you at?” He folded his hands on the side of the bath. He spoke more clearly now she was facing away. That sent a chill down her spine.

  “The Lemio Clothing and Shoddy Company,” she said, looking back at him.

  “Grostiman’s venture,” he said with a nod. “He is typical of the mill owners, and my mistress’s enemy. They treat their young workers so poorly it is cheaper to throw them out before they are caught flouting the law. Too many of these factory owners are doing that now. They are untouchable. Their underlings are arrested instead of they, charged for offences that seem new, for they have never been enforced. All that is changing.”

  She looked at him quizzically.

  He smiled, though his intention in doing so was masked. “Do you not know, my pretty little one? The goodlady who runs this factory is your champion, although for how much longer remains to be seen. Many of my master’s associates are convinced she will put herself out of business. Although, I say to myself, and never, ever to them,” he gave her another white-toothed smile, and grasped her gently by the chin, “if that is the case my lords, why are you scrambling to divest yourself of these youthful liabilities?” He let go of her face and rocked back from the bath on his heels. “You can see from how you are being treated here that the Morthrocks are good people. But they will not bankrupt themselves. Life here will be dull. You will work hard in return for their protection. I can make it better.”

  “Is this true?” she asked. “Is the Goodlady Morthrocksa fighting for us?

  “It is true, mio chicina,” he said. “Right now, at Sunderdown she goes against all three houses. Can you imagine? I do not think Goodlady Katriona will get her bill through, but it will make change. Action always makes change. She is not alone, though her supporters sit on the side of the match field, in case she loses. If she does not they will all leap up and claim their own victories. They will say, ‘See, I too am a champion of the poor! I always have been!” He laughed. “If she fails, conditions will still be imposed upon the mill owners. Life will become freer, better for people like you, perhaps worse for people like me. But don’t you worry about that. That will not happen for a long time, so if I were you I would make the best of this situation as you find it.” He gave her a look loaded with meaning, “You are pretty. If you can keep your looks, in a few years you might marry yourself out of this situation. More likely, you will marry another drudge in this place and bear litters of brats to toil alongside you. It would be better if you had someone to watch over you. A real man, with means and money, not a boy or an exhausted factory worker who will drink your wages away and beat you in his frustration with life.”

  She stared back, refusing to speak.

  “If I need to spell it out, very well. I offer my services, in exchange for a few of yours. What do you say?”

  She shook her head.

  “Ah, my dear, my dear little one. We both know something that the good lords Demion and Katriona do not. I know that your hearing is affected.”

  Her blood ran cold. “It is not.”

  He smiled. “Oh it is. An unfortunate result of your work in all these factories,” he said. “Many are afflicted with it. A ringing in your ears, yes? A ringing that drowns out all other sound. If you do not take precautions, it will get worse. The goodman is kind, but I have little time for persons with the smallest flaw. It affects my productivity, and that affects my purse.”

  She choked on a sob.

  “Shhh,” he said. “I will not be unkind. I am a good man, skilled in the art of love. I believe that women, like flowers, have a perfect age, did you know that? Those first, perfect years, unmarred by pest or age. Those are the golden times for women, and they are so often overlooked.”

  He stroked her shoulder.

  She shook her head, using the motion to avoid his hand. It followed her face and continued to caress her. Conflicting sensations put her on edge. Her body stiffened against his touch, freezing her in place.

  His hand fell lower, drawing circles around her collar bones, then down over the upper curve of her breast. She felt her nipples tighten, bringing a wave of disgust. “Pick a flower too late, and its beauty has gone before you know it,” he said. He ran his hand up to her face again, the strokes becoming firmer. He pulled her lower lip from her teeth for a moment. He looked at them, similar to the way a breeder inspects the teeth of a dray. “Pick them as flowers, and they wither and die so quickly. Pluck it just before it blooms, and you may enjoy beauty for a long time before it sadly flees.” He took her chin again and tilted her face toward him. “I prefer to pluck my flowers while they are yet buds. That way I get to enjoy their opening.” He breathed into her face. His breath was sweet with spices, redolent of warmer, drier lands. “I can get you things. Food. New clothes, not just these factory smocks.” He gestured dismissively at the uniform. “I can provide protection for your ears, so you need not lose your hearing completely. I can love you, if you behave correctly. This warm water I bring you all, I did it for you, you see?” His smile took on a predatory air. “I do it because you are beautiful. I can see in your eyes that you and I, we may have a match in our souls.” He pointed at her then at himself. “I can help. All I require is a few small considerations on your part, easily achieved.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I will not force you to do anything you do not want to.” His laugh, so beguiling and kind before took on a sinister edge. “Well, not unless you want me to force you.”

  His hand trailed lower, dipping into the water. She squeezed her thighs shut, but he stood without touching her again. He playfully flicked the water from his fingers, and looked down from on high like a man surveying a patch of ground he would till.

  “Think about it. Your life could be very boring here, though it will be safe. The Morthrocks are profiteers like the rest, but they have a few more morals than most industrialists. Sadly, your disability may shorten your stay here. Or,” he smiled again, and all things positive had gone from his handsome face and the glint of his ivory teeth, “it could be exciting, and not limited to these brick halls alone.”

  He glanced up at the motto and snorted before sauntering out of the door.

  She had been asked to sell herself many times since Tuvacs had gone.

  A week after she arrived at the Morthrock
sey Mill, she finally gave in.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The Taking of the Prince Alfra

  “SMOKE ON THE horizon!” The lookout’s warning was conveyed from the watchnest to the wheelhouse, his voice hollowed out by the speaking tubes. “Smoke on the horizon!”

  Croutier’s back expanded and settled as he took in a deep breath. Heffi couldn’t see his face, but he would bet his last nose ring that the mercenary was smiling.

  Heffi looked sidelong at Suqab. The Second Mariner’s eyes met his. Heffi nodded.

  “Sound the whistle,” said Heffi.

  Suqab pulled the whistle cord three times. Its two-toned lowing blew out over the choppy sea, sorrowful as the widows of the drowned.

  “What are you doing?” asked Croutier affably.

  Heffi raised his eyebrows. “I assume you want them to be able to find us? I am merely speeding them to our location.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?” Croutier drew his pistol and pointed it at Heffi’s head. “Because someone told me that when you blew three whistles like that, you would attempt to take back the ship.”

  “I’ve no idea what you are talking about. Tol?” Heffi asked the helmsman nonchalantly. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”

  “None at all,” said the helmsman, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

  A trickle of sweat ran down Heffi’s temple.

  “You’re all dead,” said Croutier.

  Three of Croutier’s thugs came into the wheelhouse, weapons ready. Godelwind was hauled in by Guando.

  “Tell your captain what you told me,” Croutier demanded of the terrified Godelwind.

  “I... You didn’t say I’d have to look at him,” stammered Godelwind.

  “I prefer men who are not ashamed of their convictions.” Croutier swung his gun round to point at Godelwind without taking his eyes from Heffi. “Tell him now.”

  “I told him,” said Godelwind defiantly, “I couldn’t let you do it. These are reasonable men. We would all have died.”

  “Coward,” said Heffi. “He’s going to kill us all, you know that.”

  “Oh yes I am,” said Croutier. “You see, the thing is Godelwind, that’s your name, isn’t it?”

  Croutier waited for a reply. Godelwind nodded frantically.

  “Thank you,” said Croutier. “Where was I?” he scratched his nose with his pistol barrel. “Ah yes, the thing is, Godelwind, is that your captain was right.”

  Croutier pointed the gun at Godelwind’s head.

  “Wait!” said Godelwind.

  “To arms!” yelled Heffi. He stamped his foot so hard the iron deck rang.

  Croutier’s gun came round for Heffi. A less ruthless man might have made a quip at that point, Heffi thought. Croutier just fired.

  Heffi was saved by a sudden upwelling in the iron of the wheelhouse floor. Metal shrieked on metal. The bullet went wide, sparking from the wall an inch away from Heffi and ricocheting into the window. Croutier swayed on the buckling plating.

  “What by the lost gods...” Croutier swore.

  The whole of the forward section of the wheelhouse deformed and lifted, sending the room’s occupants staggering. Metal screamed in parting. Rivets pinged from their holes, shattering the glass, smashing instruments. One of Croutier’s men was peppered by flying iron. His skull broke, and he went down.

  The Ishamalani went into action.

  Drentz was on the mercenaries fast, knife in a man’s throat before he could react. Tolpoleznaen felled another, the belaying pin hidden in his sash appearing in his hands as if by magic, knocking his target cold with a single blow.

  Croutier was screaming wildly, with an abandon Heffi would have thought out of character for the man. But then, reflected the captain in later years, he was being crushed alive by a giant, flat hand made of metal that peeled itself away from the floor. Long fingers wrenched themselves out of the structure of the ship with ominous plinks, and curled themselves about the mercenary captain’s body. The shifting metal opened the wheelhouse to the deck below, and from that newly made gap the iron whisperers emerged, gliding uncannily up a ramp of metal, eyes aglow.

  The Tyn chanted a song that hurt the soul. Metal danced to its tune. Marks Heffi had never seen before glowed white hot in the Tyn’s skin, and their veins showed as black patterns through their flesh. Their eyes blazed with the heat of a forge, and the smell of hot metal washed off them in searing blasts.

  Heffi took an involuntary step back. The iron rippled closer to the wheel housing.

  “Not the wheel!” he shouted. “If we lose the rudder now, we’re all dead!”

  With obvious effort, the Tyn reined in their magic and turned aside the squeezing hand. The splits in the metal plating ran up to the foot of Heffi’s station, stopping inches before they tore open the structure around the wheel and destroyed the Prince Alfra’s ability to steer.

  Croutier thrashed and screamed in the grip of the enchanted metal. He pushed at its fingers in terror, slicing open his palms on the jagged edges, but he was held fast. He could not escape.

  Guando got a shot off as he backed towards the door, catching Suqab in the throat and felling him. Sounds of fighting came from all over the ship. The isolated bangs of ironlocks going off were outcompeted by bloodcurdling Ishmalani shouts. Not battlecries, exactly, for battle was forbidden, but in a situation like this such rules were suspended, and their prayers screamed at volume were as terrifying as any warrior’s cry. Guando went down to a shot from behind. Toberan burst in, followed by Dellion. Tyn Charvolay pushed past them, blood dripping from his chef’s knife and wearing an expression of such savagery it frightened Heffi.

  The Tyn’s chanting reached a crescendo. Croutier’s screaming followed suit. The iron fingers had him about the waist, covering him from chest to knee. As they constricted, his bones snapped one by one, then all at once. Croutier gave one last spasmodic twitch and fell limp. His upper torso hung from the fist, his pulped innards held in the bruised sack his skin had become. Fluid pattered onto the deck.

  It was done. The Tyn attempted to stop their magic, but it had got away from them. One screamed and fell down, smoke pouring from his clothes. The second could not stop his chanting. He locked his teeth, but the words had him now, and forced themselves from his mouth. White heat bathed the wheelhouse in light. The Tyn’s back arched. The chant was cut short. The light went out.

  A few bangs and shouts came from outside the wheelhouse, then silence, and cheering.

  The musical, crystalline sound of metal settling played a discordant song aboard the bridge.

  Heffi dropped the arm he had raised to protect his face. Melded to the deck in seamless union was a statue of the iron whisperer. Everything, from his wiry hair to his teeth, even his clothes, had been transformed into a single piece of iron, perfect in every detail. All except his collar, which remained apart around his iron neck, rapidly cooling from orange to cherry red.

  Tyn Charvolay let out a cry, and rushed to the smoking body of the other iron whisperer, and patted him.

  “He’s still alive! Call for the physic. Get him cooled down. Oh, disaster,” said Charvolay.

  Toberan nodded, and ran out with the marine.

  “I have never seen such a thing,” said Heffi in wonder. “I never thought it was possible.”

  Charvolay wiped tears from his face with the back of his hand. “You know what powers this ship. You know the Tyn of the Morthrocksey band made it possible. The knowledge to manipulate iron and magic together is not limited to the Morthrockesy alone, curse the world that it is so!”

  “But this...” Heffi gestured to the inert iron fist, dripping with the crushed remains of Croutier.

  Toberan returned with help. Kororsind had been released from his alchemist’s lab, and he assisted the physic, Mauden, and Baudlein, the ship’s tynman, as they helped up the last iron whisperer. Heffi didn’t know the Tyn’s name. He didn’t know its sex. The iron whisperers were a breed apart,
even among their people.

  Charvolay pulled a face. “It is a power from the ancient times, little used now. Few dare to attempt it.” Charvolay shook his head sadly at the transmutated Tyn. “Two Tyn dead in weeks, we who can live forever. Immortality thrown aside for your benefit, Ishmalan. Do not forget this in the coming months. Our sacrifices must be remembered, or you will pay.”

  “In the name of the One, it shall be so,” said Heffi.

  “Your prayers are wasted,” said the cook. “Pray to a better god. The One forgot his children long ago.” Charvolay left with the rest, talking urgently to the fallen iron whisperer in words no one else could understand.

  “CAPTAIN, THE SHIP is taken. We have the survivors of Croutier’s mercenaries held captive,” said Toberan.

  “How many dead?” said Heffi. He pulled out his telescope while he spoke. He gave the approaching vessels a rapid scan. Though floatstone, they were as revolutionary in their design as the Prince Alfra. Their hulls were tall and strong, finely shaped and smoothed, fit to survive the rigours of a direct crossing of the southern ocean, a feat few had attempted and fewer survived.

  “There are six of ours dead, eleven wounded. Three will die. Four of Croutier’s men remain. The rest we killed.”

  “Toss the survivors overboard,” said Heffi.

  Toberan was taken aback. “They’ll die for sure. No one can live in that water for more than a few minutes.”

  “A few minutes will bring their fellows to their aid, if they desire to stop. We will not be responsible for their deaths. If they do die, I care not. No one takes a ship from the Ishmalani. No one. They would have done the same to us. The Drowned King will welcome such scoundrels into his service.”

  “And what about him?” said Toberan, pointing to Godelwind, who cowered in the corner.

  “Lock this dracon’s arsehole up somewhere I don’t have to look at him,” said Heffi. “I’ll think on it. The penalty for mutiny is unpleasant, it may suffice.”