The Brass God

by K. M. McKinley

  Ilona watched it inch its way between two of Ardovani’s measuring staves. The distance between, the magister said, was roughly equivalent to thirty miles. The marines had found that if they sat in the right place on the rock’s surface, the white interior of the Sotherwinter disappeared, and the steam column seemed to make its way directly along an artificial horizon of black stone. The effect of doing so was that the progression of the steam column was more readily discerned. Over the preceding week it had moved through three sticks, and was now heading toward the last.

  “They’ll be here in four days, that’s what the magister says,” said Aretimus, who was taking watch with Ilona.

  “We’re going to have to leave.”

  “Isn’t that up to you, goodlady?” Aretimus looked over the edge where preparations for the next expedition meeting were underway.

  She heard the resentment in his voice. “When I’m down there, I’m a goodlady,” she said. “When I’m with you, I’m just a Marine Ordinary.”

  “You never will be though, will you?” said Aretimus awkwardly. “I mean no offence to you goodlady.”

  “None taken, but please stop calling me goodlady.”

  “But you are a goodlady. That’s what I mean.”

  “Ilona,” she said. “Call me Ilona. Say it. Now.”

  “Ilona,” said Aretimus reluctantly. Karsan social class was bred into the bone. His discomfort at crossing the boundary made him visibly tense. “You’re too highborn to remain in the lower ranks for long. If you go back, there’s no way they’ll let you stay in the service, and they’d never let you be an officer. I expect First Lieutenant Bannord is going to find himself in plenty of hot water for making you a soldier.”

  “Probably,” she said, hating that he was right. “But we’re not in Karsa now, are we Ari? So you get on with watching the sea for the ship, and I’ll get on watching the snow for the Draathis, and we can argue about this if we ever, ever find ourselves back in the isles.”

  HALF AN HOUR before her watch was due to end, Ilona was relieved by Devall. He clambered up the ropes to the top of the rock and grinned at her apologetically. For some reason he kept forgetting she could speak Maceriyan, and mimed and gurned at her.

  “Devall, I speak Maceriyan adequately,” she said for the tenth time.

  “Sorry medame,” he said. He behaved strangely around her. Musran attitudes to women were even more backward than those in the isles, so far as she could tell. “You are wanted down in the camp. The meeting is beginning.”

  “Thank you, mesire,” she said. He grinned again at her use of the honorific. She decided that Musrans were odd.

  The camp had a febrile mood. They had been there too long, she thought. The men were restless, she was restless. Tyn Rulsy appeared from nowhere to waddle at her side.

  “Don’t like it,” said the Tyn. What she did not like, or why, she did not elaborate.

  There was the meeting tent, with its sides rolled up, site of every meeting they had had. There were the other tents, some from the ship, some from Antoninan’s stores. There were the sleds, piled high with supplies, ready to depart at a moment’s notice. There were the men, who whether joking or stern were all determined. Barriers between the two groups had come down. Persin was still tolerated more than welcomed by both sides, but even he had managed to overcome resentment with some genuinely useful insights.

  And there was Ilona, who, Aretimus’ unwelcome reminder aside, was treated more or less as one of the men, and she liked that.

  What he had said on the rock troubled her. It was no revelation, because she had been thinking exactly the same thing night in, night out.

  She listened to Antoninan and Bannord arguing over what to do. He repeated his position forcefully. He wanted to wait, especially now the bay was open. Antoninan, who swore less but was more emotionally volatile, repeated his position that he wanted to leave. Every meeting, every week for the last month.

  She remained silent. They would vote soon. Antoninan and Bannord’s votes were a given. Ullfider always did whatever Bannord suggested. Persin waited to see the outcome.

  These were matters of life and death. Such power men had over the lives of others. In Pris it was the other way around entirely, but that land was an exception regarded suspiciously by the others. In a dozen other kingdoms women had more of a voice, but though they might rule, they rarely led, and those kingdoms did not matter. They were small, or backward, sparsely populated or all three. The most powerful lands, Maceriya and its satellites, and the realms of Mohaci, Khushashia, and Karsa, were the lands of men. Women were expected to be silent.

  Now she had it, she no longer welcomed the power Bannord had put in her hands. No one should have to make decisions that could lead to another’s death. But as it was necessary, women had as much right to a say as any man. She wondered what had led Bannord to give her this voice so often denied her sex. Affection? The need for a willing, pliable ally? Or was it worse than that, and she was given this falsely, to protect the reputation of men at home? A shield for Arkadian Vand.

  “Ilona?” Bannord was looking at her expectantly. Ullfider coughed next to him. The antiquarian was getting weaker. Good fortune smiled on the rest of them that he seemed to be suffering an ailment of age, rather than something they might all catch.

  “What?” she said.

  “Which way are you going to vote, stay or leave?”

  “I agree with Antoninan, we should go,” said Persin, who was subtle enough to see Ilona had heard none of the debate. “The choice rests with you, goodlady.”

  The council members waited. Antoninan’s fists were clenched. The men were all staring at her. She took a deep breath.

  “By Magister Ardovani’s instrument upon the rock, I have watched the Draathis come closer. They will be here within a few days. I believe we have no choice. We must cease waiting, and abandon Sea Drays Bay.”

  Antoninan looked skyward in triumph. Bannord was right about him, he was more interested in having another attempt at finding his elusive route north than simply surviving. Well, that would serve them, if it existed.

  “Are you sure?” said Bannord. “I mean, we could wait another day or two.”

  She fought back an angry retort. Her face burned with annoyance. “I am sure,” she insisted. “I vote we leave.”

  THE LINE OF sleds drew away from Sea Drays Bay, heading around the back of the sea dray colony and into the hills behind, there they would loop back through wide valleys where the blue tongues of glaciers rested, and follow them north. Antoninan had mapped them extensively. That would be the easiest part of the trip, he assured them.

  The men walked by the sleds. All were laden down with supplies taken from the cache, and the carcasses of slaughtered sea drays. The distance they had on the Draathis allowed them these stores, and they would be glad of them in the weeks ahead.

  Antoninan stood at the side of the route from the bay as the dogs hauled their heavy loads though a notch in the hill and onto wide plains of snow and rock, whose horizons were tumorous with the cracked bodies of ice caps. Valatrice led the way. Then came the Karsan expedition’s second sled, then Labarr leading the first of Persin’s sleds, the other two close behind. He waited until the baying of the hounds had drawn off. The last man trudged below, his rifle at the ready. Antoninan waved down at him. The man, unrecognisable in his arctic gear, waved back.

  The group would fret that he was not there. They could wait. He wanted to enjoy the peace of the Sotherwinter, without the bark of dogs and chatter of men. He wanted to hear the voice of the continent, its animal noises, the crack and boom of shifting ice, the soughing wind, the crash of water on the unyielding black stone of the shore. There was no silence in a land like that, not ever, but the peace of it even at its noisiest dwarfed any comfort Eustache Antoninan could find in a city of men. He loved that land fiercely.

  He came there for that. People thought him concerned only for glory. Glory he desired, it was true, but it w
as not his sole motivation, nor the chief of them.

  Antoninan looked back over the bay. The tide was dropping. The ice had nearly all gone, and the barrier reefs that shielded the bay were turned to sharp ridged walls by the water’s retreat. There were breaches where the ocean had won out, but only one gateway in the fortress, as he fancifully thought of it, a deepwater channel to the eastern side. He remembered the discovery of the bay. He remembered the times he had been there. Each time he saw it, he thought it might be the last. This time was no different.

  He closed his eyes. Warm sun bathed his face. The voice of the Sotherwinter spoke to him. It would change for the worse, if he were successful.

  But by then he would be rich, and he would mourn the loss of the land’s voice in style.

  A faint hoot intruded into his reverie. He opened his eyes. They were momentarily dazzled by the glare of the snow and the sea. The sound came again. He searched the horizon.

  Out on the ocean, far, far on the edge of human vision, a wisp of white steam, faintly luminous with the discharge of spent glimmer, threaded its way skyward.

  He watched it for a few moments more. The rest of the party were well over the hill and would be heading down the other side. They would hear nothing.

  He turned to follow the sleds.

  He followed the disturbed snow at a jog. Without saying a word of what he had seen, he took the lead of the line of sleds heading toward the northwest.

  The conquering of the Sorskian Passage, and all of its attendant wealth and prestige, would be his.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The Challenge

  THE MODALMEN FILLED the arena. Tribes inimical to each other stood peacefully together, swaying in time to an internal rhythm. Their singing was so low the ground shook. Clan markings shone a glorious display in the smoke of burned human corpses. Fires crackled every twenty paces around the arena’s rim, fuelled by the broken wood of the cage wagons and the flesh of the dead. Surrounded by modalmen on every side, the remaining men waited in terror for their fate.

  Rel watched from behind bars, alone. Thirteen cages of men remained. The survivors of the escape were crammed into six of them so tightly it seemed the cages sprouted waving hair made of human limbs, but the density in the wains was misleading. Many men had been killed. Weakened by months of starvation, they were easy prey to Brauctha’s hounds. The lucky ones had died instantly, many of the rest had endured things no man should ever see, let alone feel. The corpses of those brought down had been roasted by the man eaters, as had many of the living. The stink of fat off the cooking fires clung to Rel’s filthy clothes; the screaming of the dying echoed still in his ears. For days he had endured hell.

  He had the cage to himself. Brauctha had made a great show of placing the wagon at the centre of the thirteen, so that Rel had a clear view of the arena floor and the fates of the men he had failed to save.

  The elders of the modalmen tribes stood in a circle a few paces from Rel. Their humming set the music for the others to follow. They stood motionless, their wordless drone reverberating off the ancient stones and into the desert.

  In the course of his short military career, Rel had witnessed more bloodshed than many Kingdoms soldiers saw in a lifetime. But his current situation was so profoundly unsettling it wore his courage out. He felt brittle, like an old pan corroded through, which though holding its shape awaited the final knock that would see it disintegrate into flakes of rust. The world had the contradictory, hyperreal nonsensicality of a nightmare, only he was wide awake.

  Images of what the man eaters had done to their captives pushed themselves into his mind. He tapped his temple with the heel of his hand. The memories would not be dislodged. They changed, and the blood streaked, screaming faces became his own.

  He could not decide whether the anticipation of what they might do to him or the guilt for causing so many men to suffer was worse. The question was academic. He would either be transformed, or tortured to death himself. He did not think he could be brave either way.

  He stared at the elders until his eyes blurred with tears.

  “I have so thoroughly fucked up,” he said.

  He kicked the bars and dropped his head onto his knees.

  A whir and metallic clink sounded from above his head. He looked upward, and caught sight of a large insect. It disappeared onto the far side of a bar, its feet tapping on the metal. A moment later it crawled back around, reappearing on the nearside of the bar at eye level. At that distance it was obvious it was no living insect, but a tiny machine similar to Onder in miniature, with a body made of brass and wing casings of iridescent silver. Tiny rubies made its eyes. Segmented antennae, delicate as curls of fine swarf, stroked the bars. It stopped, rearing up on its back legs. Rel jumped as its wing cases snapped open, and it flew noisily to land on his leg. Its sharp feet pricked his skin.

  “Ow,” he said.

  “Do not be alarmed,” said the beetle. Though the voice was high pitched it was undoubtedly Qurunad’s.

  “I’m not alarmed by you,” Rel said. “That out there alarms me.” He pointed through the bars.

  “I am Qurunad,” it said.

  “Of course it’s you!” said Rel angrily. “I don’t see anyone else capable of making such a thing.”

  “Very clever,” said the god.

  “We have things like this in the Kingdoms, only they can’t talk. They’re toys.”

  “From toys great science comes,” said the beetle. It vibrated, tickling Rel. The back legs blurred when it spoke, rubbing against the metal thorax faster than the eye could see.

  “Speaking legs, how novel,” said Rel.

  “You are in no position to be flippant. I have come to you now in your hour of need. You should have departed when I said. You achieved nothing but the deaths of men who might have been transformed and bolstered the army that will win this war.”

  “Thanks,” said Rel. “I’m glad you are here, talking to me. Speaking with a false god through the medium of a metal beetle is brightening my day up no end.”

  “Be silent!” squeaked the beetle. “Brauctha has been waiting for you to make a mistake. He will use your actions now as a pretext for challenging Shkarauthir. He is the better warrior, and will probably win. When a challenger defeats another, he is entitled to all the defeated party’s chattels, and in modalmen terms that means Shkarauthir’s tribe. He will then challenge me. You have given him the perfect opportunity to avoid a vote at the moot. He will invade the Hundred Kingdoms. This will be your fault.”

  “I retract my previous comment about feeling better.”

  “You should not feel anything but remorse. Brauctha is free to act because of you. He told the moot that you should never have been brought into the camp before the horde’s course of action was decided, and that your attempt to free his slaves was an insult that Shkarauthir must pay for. Brauctha is every bit as dangerous as I thought.”

  “You know him well.”

  “He is over one thousand years old,” said Qurunad. “Our paths have crossed frequently.”

  “Masters rarely have a care for the personalities of their slaves,” said Rel bitterly.

  “Something you as a Karsan should understand. Your nation’s treatment of the Tyn is worse than my treatment of the modalmen. You are horrified by slavery, yet you practise it.”

  “Are you going to get me out of here?”

  “I regret that I cannot. This device lacks the appropriate tools. I cannot intervene in person. If I provoke Brauctha, he will certainly destroy me.”

  “As opposed to probably.”

  “I must take the risk. I have to survive. Apart from my knowledge’s usefulness to the world, which is of incalculable worth, I am reluctant to die.”

  “You’ve certainly gone to lengths to save your own hide, that’s for sure.”

  “My hide, as you have it, long ago turned to dust. I admit I am self-interested. Survival is the imperative of all life. I am not ashamed. I work to
save the world, but I save the world so I will live.”

  “If your beetle can’t get me out, and you won’t come down from your fortress, I can infer that you’ve basically come here to say ‘I told you so’?”

  “Notwithstanding the fact that I did tell you so, not entirely,” stridulated the beetle. “You may survive this if you can escape from this cage. When Brauctha triumphs over Shkarauthir, he will invoke my name, and request that I release to him the Machineries of Change. This I will do.”

  “That is so noble, the way you’re standing up to him,” said Rel sarcastically.

  “More modalmen to face the Draathis is to be desired, whatever you may think of their creation. You have no right to judge. You gave up your best chance to influence these events in your favour. You are ruled by sentiment. It will be your downfall.”

  “Thanks,” said Rel. “I guess I’ll come and thank you when I’ve got four arms and illuminated skin.”

  “That will not happen. They will not put you through the machines.”

  “I guess they don’t want me to be in a position to kill them.”

  “It is not that,” said Qurunad. “It is because you are of a mageborn family. In the ancient days we would enhance the ability of the mageborn. As living weapons they served us. They were also changed by the machines.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Because now is the time,” said the beetle smugly. “What good would it have done before, except to tempt you?”

  “I would not have been tempted.”

  “Well, now you have no choice. The purity of mageborn blood is diluted in modern times, hence your lack of ability. But you still carry the magic, wrapped up in the words of the book of life that is inside every man. Putting a mageborn through the Machineries of Change grants them enormous power. The modal form will not support the use of magic, we created them that way. Humans have an innate ability to effect the world through the application of their will. We took it from the modalmen, we intensified it in the mageborn. It is simple, actually. All the most complicated things are.”