The Brass God

by K. M. McKinley

  Umi pulled a face at her forwardness. “Really, goodlady.”

  She turned to face the quiet barroom. “My lovely people, I apologise that I have neglected you these last months. In part I have avoided tackling the situation here as I realised how much I had shirked my duties, and was daunted. No more. This very day, I have spoken at length with Mayor Ullvis, and I have heard some of what needs to be done. Of course, the word of one man, even so fine a goodman as Ullvis, is never the whole story. I promise you that I shall hold a village meeting at the hall next week where all of you may bring to my attention anything that troubles you.”

  She was forced to shout over the hubbub this generated. “Please! If you would keep your questions and complaints until then, I would appreciate it.” She turned to Umi, but spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “Until then, two drinks a piece for everyone here tonight, to be charged to the castle. Holless will sort it out, next time he comes through.”

  A cheer went up, followed by a surge toward the bar. The press of people caught the countess in a web of doffed caps and modest bows as they expressed their gratitude.

  “Free booze,” she whispered to Qurion once she had extricated herself, “will put a smile on the face of the most disgruntled man.”

  THEY ATE IN the dining room off the main bar. There was not much call for private dining in Mogawn, and Umi had to rapidly clear the table of baskets waiting to be mended. A crooked window looked out on the wind rippled leaves of an alder. Those that had not yet turned yellow switched from silver to green in the last light of the evening.

  “I did say the food was good, did I not?” she said.

  Qurion nodded around a mouthful of goat stew. “It’s much better than what the army gives us,” he said.

  “As good as that, eh?”

  “I admit, it is poor praise. It is delicious.”

  Umi, who was making a clumsy attempt to serve wine the refined way, dipped his head in pleasure. He poured two glasses, then departed, pulling the door quietly closed behind him.

  “A shame you can’t say the same for the wine!” whispered the countess. She grinned. “I love this place,” she said. “When my father was away, my mother used to come here on her own and I was allowed to play with the other children. It has fond memories for me. That all stopped when my mother died.”

  “He did not let you come here after your mother passed over?”

  “Oh gods no! Father did not approve. ‘A goodlady should be engaged in improving pursuits, not brawling in the mud with farm brats,’ he’d say. He would never speak to the people like that directly, they all thought he was marvellous. He was a two-faced Ellosantin bastard. Married my mother for her money, then hounded her to death.”

  “Is that why you have never married?”

  “What!” she snorted. “Me being my age, a terrible spinster, I should have married years ago, is that it? I’m disappointed in you,” she said. She had meant it as a joke, but found herself actually offended.

  “I genuinely meant no offence. Having got to know you a little, I am surprised.”

  “If you are trying to seduce me again, just ask. I can’t abide hollow flattery.”

  “It is not hollow.”

  She sipped the wine. It was bad, and she pulled a face. “I am not married because I hate being responsible for other people. All this, the village and the castle, it has accreted around me like mortar. It drags at me. I love Mogawn, and I adore most of these people, do not think I am careless of them, but I wish to be free. They treat me like their mother. Marriage would be more of the same. It is the worst kind of imprisonment for a woman. Even if it goes well, and the man does not steal your fortune, or beat you, or ignore you, or fuck all the maids yet grow outraged when you speak to another man. Even if there is love in the relationship, you are responsible for someone else’s happiness. That is the greatest responsibility of all. I cannot take that on. I simply cannot.”

  “You might be surprised, if you met someone who you felt similarly for. Then the burden would feel like a blessing.”

  “I hadn’t expected such mawkish sentiment from you.” She quirked her eyebrow. “You captain, are married. I can tell. You are also flirtatious, and unfaithful to your wife. I suspect frequently. You are not a suitable role model, nor are you in a position to be giving me advice on marital affairs.”

  Qurion nodded. “I am not a good husband. But there are good husbands. And there are good marriages that make good husbands even out of bad men.”

  The countess laughed uncomfortably. “This is all hypothetical. Who would marry a woman with a countenance like this?” She drew a circle around her face in the air. “It is the greatest irony of my life that I hated my father so much, but look just like him. I am truly a hag.”

  “Goodlady,” said Qurion. “You are no hag.”

  “That is what they call me, though. My father thought so too. He ridiculed me about my face. He called me an ugly young witch. He wanted a son, and I was not one. I was lucky he died before he could marry me off.” She took a shaky drink. “I know nothing about these good marriages you speak of, but I know there are bad marriages, and they make bad men worse.”

  The door creaked.

  “Umi!” She said before looking to see who was there. “Please knock next time. We have sensitive matters to talk over.”

  “You should not speak of your father that way, Lucinella, he was a good man, and he did love you whether you believe it or not.”

  Cold shivers ran up the countess’s spine. At the sound of the voice she turned her head as slowly as if it were a mechanical novelty mounted upon a child’s saving bank.

  Stood in the doorway was Mansanio, her disgraced manservant.

  “Goodlady!” he said, half pleadingly, half longingly. His clothes were torn. Scratches marked his face, many deep and weeping.

  Her shock turned to anger. Her face twisted savagely, and she pulled a single shot pistol from a pouch at her belt with the fluidity of someone who has practised the move a great many times.

  “You have five seconds to tell me what you are doing here, before I put a hole in your heart, you little shit,” she said.

  “You have a gun?” said Qurion.

  “What self-respecting woman does not?” she replied, stony faced. She looked Mansanio dead in the eye.

  “Five,” she began.

  “Please goodlady, let me explain, I come here contrite,” blustered Mansanio.

  “Four.”

  “Take me back home, back to the castle. I will explain everything.” He looked over his shoulder nervously. “I cannot stay here. I need to be on the sea! It is the only place I shall be safe.”

  Mansanio’s entire manner had changed. The assured castellan of Mogawn was gone; in its place was a cringing, malnourished creature. He flung himself to the floor, hands writhing over his head. “I beg you! I must have forgiveness, or they shall kill me.”

  “What the hells are you talking about?” said Qurion. “Who is this creature, goodlady?”

  “Three!” said Lucinia. She stood abruptly, knocking her chair back, pulled back the hammer on her pistol, and aimed it at Mansanio’s head. “Explain yourself, or I will kill you.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Qurion powerlessly. He got up slowly, fearful of provoking murder.

  A tapping came at the window, too soft and insistent to be the branches of the tree. Qurion whirled around in time to see a tiny face snarling at the glass, eyes glowing. “Lost gods!” He snatched up his sword belt from where it hung on the back of his chair, and drew his sabre. “We have company.”

  Lucinia gave him a questioning look.

  “Tyn,” he said.

  “I told you, there are no Tyn here, and no stories of them off the peninsula for generations,” she said.

  “You were talking of the lesser sort, because that is what was tapping on the window!”

  “No. We’ve never had those at all,” she said, puzzled. “What have you done, Mansanio?”


  “Stop them, please!” sobbed Mansanio.

  Umi came running to the door. “Goodlady, goodfellow, what is happening?”

  “Get the doors shut!” said Qurion urgently.

  “What is going on?”

  The countess held up her hand to silence the innkeeper.

  “Two,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  Feathery wings batted at the window. Small creatures, most no bigger than Qurion’s thumb, fluttered against the glass, their ugly faces contorted in hate. Larger things without wings pulled themselves onto the sill to pluck at the transoms of the glass. The smallest were mounted upon the back of nocturnal insects, brandishing miniature lances in parody of the dragon knights of old. Filthy fingernails squeaked on the glazing.

  “By the hundred hells!” swore Qurion. “They’re picking the glass out.”

  “Please, please,” whimpered Mansanio. “Take me away from here, get me away from them, and I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

  “One,” said the countess. She bent down, and pressed her gun against his head.

  “I killed a Tyn!” Mansanio shrieked hysterically. “I tore it off that bastard Kressind’s shoulder, and I broke its gods-damned neck. I killed it, I killed it!” he wept.

  “What... wait... Guis’ Tyn, you killed Guis Kressind’s Tyn?” said Qurion, torn between watching the window and dragging the cowering Mansanio from the floor.

  Mansanio was past listening. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, they won’t let me be.”

  “They’re coming through!” shouted Qurion. A long-fingered hand, its owner hidden below the level of the wall, picked apart the old wood holding the glass in place with black nails that were closer to talons. The pane fell with a soft tinkle, and the Tyn burst in.

  Qurion swiped his sword through the swarm of tynfolk. The countess discharged her gun. They boiled around blade and bullet, and dived onto Mansanio. Some of them played horrible, shrill instruments, and they sang as they plucked and tore at Mansanio’s flesh and clothes.

  “Confess, confess, confess!” they sang, their voices discordant. “Speak the truth of your crime, lie not, and die not, confess, confess, confess!”

  The countess screamed. Qurion yanked her back, but the Tyn had intentions only on Mansanio, who they tormented until a burly villager came rushing in, and uncapped the lens of a powerful bulls-eye glimmer lamp. The cone of light sent the Tyn screeching toward the window.

  From the common room came the shouts of people as they crowded the windows to see this phenomenon. Qurion shooed away straggling Tyn. He did so gently for he had no wish to earn their ire also, and hauled the shaking Mansanio to his feet.

  “Every night! Every night!” wailed Mansanio. “Please help me. I confess, it was me, it was me. I killed the Tyn. I killed it!” he wept. “They said confess. I have! I have, and they still torment me.” He fell to his knees, his bloodied face in his hands. “What do they want? What do they want?”

  The countess and the captain shared a glance.

  It had been a most eventful trip.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  A Traitor to the Realm

  “GOODMAN AND GOODWIVES, goodfellows, please!” shouted Demion Morthrock.

  The meeting hall at the Morthrocksey Mill echoed to shouting. Men of the lower orders stood and wagged their fingers at goodfellows of much higher social standing. Goodfellows shouted back.

  “Please!” Demion said again.

  A shot stopped the uproar in its tracks. Goodfellow Brask held a pistol in the air, barrel smoking.

  “Sorry,” Brask said. “I will pay for the damage to the ceiling.”

  Katriona sat upon the stage at the front with several of her key supporters. A long table with a white cloth divided them from their audience. Mill workers from all over the district, as well as several mill owners, filled the hall so densely there was standing room only.

  “Goodfellows, goodmen,” she said. There were a scattering of women in the audience. She didn’t like to exclude them, but she could feel calm slipping from her and had to be quick. Besides, it was not they who were making all the noise. “We have come here to work in amity, not argue.”

  “Arguing’s all you get if you keep on talking down to us like that!” shouted one man.

  “Please brother, let the goodlady speak,” said Monimus. “Just for a moment. Hear her out.”

  “It appears unlikely that my proposals will make their way through the Third House. We are here to find a solution to that, not to fight. The conditions in the mills of Karsa must be improved they—”

  “They’ll be improved when the rich stops making a pretty living off the backs of the poor!” shouted a man. “When our children can breathe air as clean as that on the Spires.”

  “You impudent scoundrel,” said a richly dressed man. “That is what she is trying to achieve. Why don’t you let her speak?”

  “She’s a Tyn-lover, and a woman!” shouted someone else. Katriona fixed the man’s face in her mind. State-sponsored agitators were the bane of labour and trade association meetings.

  “Let her talk!” shouted another.

  The room descended into furious, bellowing argument again. Demion shared a look with his wife, then leant in to speak into her ear above the bluster.

  “Do not lose heart, my love,” he said. “They’re here talking. That would never have happened only a few months ago.”

  He grasped her hand and squeezed it tightly. His smile was enough for her to know that he was proud of her, and that he loved her.

  She drew in a deep breath, and stood. Her speech went undelivered.

  The double doors to the meeting room burst inward. Soldiers in the bright yellow uniforms of the Karsan infantry ran inside in two files, weapons at the ready. They ran around the outside of the room, clubbing those who would not move out of the way with the butts of their rifles. They took up their positions smoothly. The crowd got to their feet, retreating from the guard, knocking chairs over and shoving each other out of the way. The shouts of raucous debate turned to calls of alarm. A decorated sergeant blew a whistle, and the guards slammed their guns down, butt first, onto the floor with a noise that caused more panic. Then the soldiers presented their arms and levelled them at the meeting.

  The whistle peeped twice more, and Eduwin Grostiman walked into the room, flanked by more soldiers. With a dramatic flourish, he unfurled a piece of paper.

  “I have here a warrant for the arrest of Katriona Kressinda-Morthrocksa and her co-conspirators: Goodfellow Brask, Goodfellow Martenion and Goodman Monimus.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” said Brask. “Under what charges?”

  “High treason against the state of Karsa,” said Grostiman triumphantly. “Take them,” he ordered. “Break this meeting up. And then find the Tyn.”

  Every other soldier in the cordon slung their weapons onto their back, drew wooden truncheons, and pushed their way into the crowd. Any man or woman that stood in their way was struck hard, as were many that did not.

  “Leave the building! Disperse, in the name of Prince Alfra!” bellowed their sergeant. “Out, out!”

  Slowly at first, then all in a rush, the people fled the room, goodman and goodfellow alike struggling past each other to be out of the doors. Grostiman and his soldiers stood aside to allow them to leave. Those who were reluctant or who simply found themselves at the back of the pack were hit repeatedly. Blood flowed. Several men were set upon, beaten down by soldiers who set about their work with stolid efficiency.

  “What the hells has happened?” said Brask. Two soldiers grabbed him by the elbows, and hustled him toward the exit. Though arrogant in his position as an aristocrat, he was wise enough in the ways of the world not to struggle.

  “Playing innocent?” said Grostiman. “We shall see about that when you are incarcerated in the Drum. A few nights of discomfort is enough to loosen the tongue of a popinjay like you.”

  “I’ve no idea what the h
ells you are talking about!” snapped Brask.

  “Nor have I,” said Katriona. Her escort did not manhandle her, but stood close enough to ensure escape was impossible. She walked down from the stage with them at her side. Martenion was treated with less cordiality.

  “Gods man!” shouted Brask. “Careful with Martenion. Have you no shame?” The soldiers hauled him in front of Grostiman. Katriona came next. The lower ranked men were treated with less respect. Grunts echoed around the hall as Monimus was beaten senseless.

  “None whatsoever,” said Grostiman. “Not when it comes to prosecuting traitors.” He smirked.

  “You don’t believe a word of it,” said Demion.

  “The god was slain in the Off Parade twelve days gone,” said Grostiman.

  “What’s that got to do with us?” snapped Demion.

  “Your Tyn had something to do with it,” said Grostiman with relish.

  “What?” said Katriona.

  Grostiman sighed. “I expect your husband to protest his innocence, but really goodlady. Eliturion is dead, as full well you know. After a stringent investigation I found that Tyn, your Tyn, took part in this foul murder, aiding the Maceriyan devil in his foul work. This news in not yet public. When it is, the populace will become unruly. This I think is part of your plan to destabilise our society so you might seize control of the state at the head of some kind of communitarian revolution.”

  “This is outrageous! You can’t prove any of this!” said Demion Morthrock. “You always were a little snake, Grostiman. I see the poor opinion held of you is a gross underestimation of your perfidious nature. You cannot arrest my wife! She has cost you a few pennies, but enriched your moral standing. You should thank her, you little lackwit.”

  Grostiman held up a gloved hand. “Careful there goodfellow, or I shall have you arrested too. Now then,” he said to his soldiers. “Take them away.”

  “I should—” began Demion.

  “Demion, say nothing more to him. Do not add to our woes,” said Katriona. “I shall go with him. They will release me, because I have done nothing.”