The Brass God

by K. M. McKinley

  The soldiers marched their prisoners out of the door. Two crossed rifles in front of Demion. Three more carried the unconscious Monimus from the room. Blood streamed from a cut to his head.

  “I will hire an army of lawyers!” Demion called after his wife. “I will not allow this. I will not! Be steadfast, my dear. Be steadfast!”

  Katriona was escorted from the room. The soldiers exited.

  “You are out of your depth, Goodfellow Morthrock,” Grostiman said. “You should keep your woman under better control. If you can exercise a husband’s authority over her, then you may have her back. And when she is returned to you, keep her at home, and you can go back to your cards and your racing. The world is a dangerous place for those who upset the floatstone.”

  Grostiman left. The two soldiers barring Demion were last out. He ran after them. Soldiers glared at him from the back of dray wagons. An enclosed carriage, with a sole barred window in its rear-facing door, was already racing away to the mill’s north entrance.

  From the south, Tyn were being marched en masse to a group of wagons. Lights were coming on in the workers’ housing.

  Helplessly, Demion Morthrock watched his wife and his unborn child being taken away.

  FILDEN OBSERVED THE commotion around the main offices of the Morthrocksey mill. Soldiers escorted out the Kressind woman and several others. What is it, he thought, about that family?

  He kept himself out of sight in the loft door of a foundry. A braced I-beam dangled a pulley and hook for lifting materials into the building, and he blended into the shadow it cast as if he were part of it. The building was shut down for the night. It was getting dark, although not late. The nights were drawing in.

  He waited for the occurrence at the offices to be done. Demion Morthrock stood impotently in the doorway.

  Filden snorted. Morthrock was a well-known weakling. Well regarded as a nice fellow, but “nice” was a huge disability in Filden’s world. Contempt was the least negative emotion he felt for Morthrock.

  The arrest of Katriona and the rest provided the perfect distraction. Filden vanished into the building, and made his way silently through the mill complex. Locked doors posed no barrier to him. He sped down empty staircases. The few people he encountered saw nothing but a Morthrocksey worker’s uniform. They would never recall the face beneath the peak of his cap.

  He took back ways between the buildings. Unlike some mills, the Morthrocksey shut down all production for the night. Another of Katriona’s reforms that benefitted Filden greatly.

  Tracking a single Mohaci urchin across Karsa city would have taxed most men, but not Filden. Money opened mouths. Violence worked on those it did not. From an ex-employee of the Lemio mill he had got a description of the constable who had closed down the Lemio mill’s orphanage. From him, he had found the dray wagon drivers. They in turn told him where they had dropped the children in the Aranthaddua stews. A boy he found there had given him a name and a description. He had been lucky that Lavinia was the only Mohaci girl at the Lemio mill. Tracking her to Golden Lane south of the North Gate had been harder, but once there it wasn’t difficult to find someone who had seen her be taken. He pressed the local watchmen for information, discovered that a Renian by the name of Donati had rounded up children, including a Mohaci, under license of the Morthrocks to the Morthrocksey mill. A little more digging around the mill had uncovered the Renian’s interest in very young women, and that his eye had fallen upon this Lavinia. A handful of coins was enough to discover the location of his apartments within the mill, and his shift patterns. Everything about the Renian that could be known, Filden knew.

  Easy work for a man like him, though he admitted without following the Sniffer he would never have found her. Vand’s aims would be achieved. The Sniffer would be cheated, Vand’s daughter would be safe from its attentions—though Filden cared neither one way or the other about that. Killing the Sniffer would be Filden’s reward. As he did not like to be afraid of anything, he looked forward to removing the source of his fear. His disquiet at the Sniffer only fuelled his hate of it, and his desire to kill.

  He reached the Renian’s quarters. Donati had set himself up in an out of the way part of the factory in order to hide his proclivities. As Filden had discovered them easily enough, it had not worked. The remoteness was, however, useful to Filden. He would not be disturbed.

  Filden kicked the door in. In an instant he had taken in the surroundings. A double bed, wash stand, chamber pot. A few clay flasks of wine. The room was built into the eaves. The ceiling slanted with the roof above, a single, dirty skylight let in mottled light. It stank of sex and sweat.

  The girl was naked in the bed with the Renian. She came awake far quicker than he did. They always did that, women. Filden supposed they were more often prey creatures, at greater risk than men. She scrambled up, dragging the bed clothes with her to cover her small breasts. She was most of the way to womanhood, but not quite there. Filden felt the barest iota of pity.

  “You, over there,” he said, waving her into the corner with his gun.

  Donati came round only a fraction of a second after her. He did not move, but smiled cockily at him.

  “What are you, her old pimp? She’s mine. I bought her fair and square, more or less. Fuck off.”

  “You interferers with little girls are all the same,” said Filden, and he shot the Renian. The bullet was trapped in his skull, and he fell dead, a neat round hole drilled in his forehead. The gun he had been hiding under the sheets thumped to the floor. “You aren’t used to dealing with adults,” he said.

  The girl screamed.

  “It’s your lucky day,” Filden said. “I’m taking you from this place and this man’s hands.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere better. I’m not going to hurt you. I could be lying, I could say what I want with this gun in my hand, but I am not. Get dressed. Now.”

  The girl was smart enough to do as he asked. The sheet she covered herself with snagged and half fell. Whatever Vand had planned for her, Filden hoped it was not terminal. She would be a fine looking woman in a few years’ time. If she survived Vand’s machine, he thought about revisiting her when she matured.

  The girl pulled on her dress and shoes. She got a short, factory issue coat, and went to stuff things into a linen bag.

  “Leave it. You’ll be given all you need.” He jerked the gun toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  She headed to the door with minimum encouragement.

  “You first,” he said, poking the gun into the small of her back. But she stopped dead.

  “Get on!” He said. He repeated himself. She twisted round.

  “I can’t...” she said in a voice of utter dread. “I cannot move. I—” She froze completely, lifeless as a stick of wood.

  Filden’s survival instinct kicked in. He threw himself to the side of the girl and opened fire with his gun, aiming three bullets two feet above the floor.

  The height of the Sniffer’s head.

  Filden’s bullets sped at the creature. It stood there, a mild expression on its face. The bullets slowed to a dead stop an inch from its face, spinning still from the rifling of his gun barrel. The Tyn blew on them, and they fell to the floor with a trio of tinkles.

  “Filden, Filden! How I have benefitted you. Is this my repayment, being cheated by your master? Attempted murder? I am so disappointed.”

  Filden raised his gun to fire again. The Tyn waved a finger and the weapon flew from his grasp into the wall, where it remained stuck, jiggling against the brickwork as if it would escape.

  Filden went for his other gun, but he could not move. The various amulets he wore burned so hot with counter-spells that they scalded his skin. He hissed with the pain.

  The Sniffer waved another hand. Lavinia floated up from her spot in the corridor and hovered in the air.

  “Vand should never have considered reneging on our deal.” The Sniffer knelt, placed his carpet bag on the bare boards of the
corridor, and opened its neck up wide. Sickly light poured from it. “Now what he wants will carry a steeper price. Two nights? A week? I shall make a thing of delight from his daughter, and he will have no choice but to agree.” He grinned horribly at Filden.

  The Tyn snapped his fingers. The girl floated light as a cloud over the bag, rotated about her waist until she was head down, and descended within. The bag swallowed her whole. When she was gone the Tyn closed the bag and snapped shut the clasps. He stood up, and dusted his crooked knees off.

  “Now you. Vand will suffer a father’s anguish, but you will not be so fortunate.”

  Filden struggled helplessly against the Tyn’s magic. The Sniffer and the room seemed to be growing. The corridor became cavernous. Strange smells filled Filden’s nose. Air currents caressed his face. To his horror, he saw the means by which he felt these unnoticed draughts were long whiskers springing from his cheeks. His nose grew, merging with his mouth, becoming a pink snout. Dense grey-brown fur sprouted all over his face. His teeth fell out. He squealed in pain as new, long incisors forced themselves out of his gums. His clothes pooled around him, become mountains of cloth trapping him. His amulets, weapons and other equipment fell from his body. No Tyn made magic or iron blade was any use against his foe.

  The Tyn was by now a giant. He stood over Filden, hands on his hips, and peered down.

  “These trinkets cannot foil the power I possess. Stupid little man. Stupid little mouse!”

  Sharp nails nipped at Filden’s freshly grown tail. The Sniffer hoisted the mouse the assassin had become high up into the air. Filden shouted at him, but his voice was a powerless squeak.

  “No bag for you, my friend.”

  The Sniffer tilted his head back, opened his jaws wide, and lowered the struggling mouse into his mouth, whereupon he swallowed it whole.

  Humming to himself, the Sniffer plucked his carpet bag from the floor. He capered off down the corridor. That night he would deliver Lavinia to Arkadian Vand.

  Then he would claim his reward.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The Coming of the Drowned King

  “DO YOU THINK he’s telling the truth about Guis?” asked Qurion.

  Mansanio sat in the centre of the cell, his chin on his drawn up knees and his arms wrapped around his legs. He had arranged dozens of iron nails in concentric circles around himself, their points outwards. More nails hung from the ceiling on threads. His skin was painted with black paint made of ground iron.

  “We saw the lesser Tyn. I can think of no other reason why they might attack him.”

  “Fuck it,” said Qurion. “No wonder no one’s heard from Guis for so long. I thought he was having one of his artistic sulks. We have to get word to his family. Gods alone know what’s happened to him. Do you think a mage could help him? Or a Guider?”

  “I appreciate that Guis Kressind is your friend, but he hurt me deeply,” said the countess.

  “No one deserves what’s happened to him.”

  “No. I suppose they don’t.” She turned away from the viewing slit in the door.

  “Please goodlady!” called Mansanio from inside. “Shut it, please!”

  She slid the cover closed. “No one has been down here in years. I can’t remember the last time Mogawn had a prisoner. Not even my father used this place.”

  The cell was one of three leading off a large room. Iron hooks hung from walls wet with damp. Rust streaked the stone.

  “When I was young, my father used to threaten me with this place; that he would lock me away here if I did not do as he commanded,” she said. “He told me this room was used for torture in the days when the pirate lords of Mogawn ruled.” She shuddered. “Even he was never cruel enough to act on his word and put me here. Sometimes, you can hear noises down in the cells, late at night.”

  “The unghosted?”

  “Worse, I fear. Mansanio must be terrified to want to stay here.”

  “There’s plenty of iron,” said Qurion. “No kind of Tyn likes much of that. Do you think the iron and sea will keep the Tyn away?”

  “Since when did I become an expert on the Lesser Tyn?” said the countess. “Mansanio thinks it will work, or he would not ask to be put here. I doubt it makes much difference. Horrifying. I feel sorry for both Guis and him. And to be the cause of it...”

  “Goodlady,” said Qurion earnestly, “a woman should never blame herself for a man’s actions in her name.”

  “I still feel responsible. I was blind to Mansanio’s affection. I could have let him down more gently. I could have been less lascivious in my behaviour. To think, he was watching all the time!”

  “You have done no wrong.”

  “I am surprised to hear a man say something like that.”

  “I am celebrated by my peers for my exploits with women. You are censured for the same activities with men. It is not right.”

  “The world is not fair,” she said. “I learned that a long time ago.”

  They looked into each other’s eyes. The invisible thread that draws lips together tugged at her. She resisted it, but she could not look away.

  The clatter of boots on stairs interrupted them.

  A soldier came into the room and saluted smartly.

  “Sir, goodlady. I have news. A rider approaches.”

  “The tide is coming in, isn’t it, Morian?” said Qurion.

  “Yes sir. He’s not natural sir,” said the soldier. “We think he’s one of them.”

  THE CASTLE LOOKED more impressive than Lucinia could remember. Soldiers with ironlocks patrolled the wall walks. The hoarding roofs over the parapets had been repaired. Windows were blocked with smart new masonry, walls shored up by buttresses. The repaired gates gleamed with fresh dark green paint. The cannons had been taken apart, the guns and the carriages winched laboriously up to the walls and reassembled in situ. Guns topped every tower. Qurion led the way into the gatehouse inner tower. He took the narrow spiral stairs three steps at a time. He, the countess and Morian emerged onto the flat roof mounting two light cannon. Between them an artillerist peered through a telescope toward land.

  A light drizzle fell, shrouding the land in grey. That night the tide was due to drown the causeway, though not lift the castle. The road was yet uncovered, and from the landward side of Mogawn a single rider came down the road upon the back of a stiffly moving dracon.

  “This looks like an official visit,” said Qurion. “From the kind of official no one wants.”

  His man stepped back from the telescope. Qurion took his place.

  “Gods,” Qurion breathed. “You’re not wrong, infantryman. He is not natural.”

  “What is it?” asked Lucinia.

  “Take a look,” Qurion said, and offered her his place.

  The countess pressed her eye to the piece, and recoiled.

  “By the gods,” she said. She looked back through the telescope. The telescope was almost as good as her own observatory pieces, and the magnification so powerful the face of the approaching rider seemed close enough to kiss.

  The creature riding toward them had once been a man. He was no longer. He had the shape of a man, and he was dressed as one, but the telescope’s unflinching eye revealed his true nature. Upon the dracon rode a corpse, his leathery skin brown with preserving fluid. Black lips framed shockingly white teeth. Moist, living eyeballs sat unblinking in an angular face. The eyelids were dried back to scabs. He was garbed like a goodfellow of high standing. His clothes were new, followed the latest fashions and were well made. But they were not the sole tailored thing about him. Stitching of silk ribbon peeked out from under his ostentatious collar, holding the skin of his neck to his chest.

  The dracon was also dead, and more obviously so than its rider. Bone was visible through holes in its hide. A large area of its skin had been cut away, and its internal organs removed. There were no eyes in its head. Wood and iron lent the skeleton support. A living dracon moved with a pleasing strut. This waddled like a clockwor
k, wholly unlovely.

  “What the hells is he?” said the countess.

  “I’d guess he’s the emissary of the Drowned King, the ambassador to the isles of Karsa and the Hundred Kingdoms,” said Quiron.

  “He is a horror, sir,” said Morian.

  The rider came to a halt where they could still see him from the tower, a few hundred yards out from the castle, and retrieved a crisp, white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit. He held this up over his head. Every movement was a stiff contortion.

  “He wants to talk,” said Qurion. “What do you think?”

  “You’re in command of the military here, captain.”

  “It’s your castle goodlady, while the situation is calm I am happier to have your input.”

  “We should speak with him,” she said.

  “We should.”

  “But I don’t want him in the castle.”

  The emissary of the drowned stood stock still, a macabre anatomist’s model on the causeway.

  “Agreed. I advise on meeting him outside. I don’t want him reporting on our strength to his master.” The water washed against the causeway mole. It was an ordinary scene made sinister. Every wavelet held menace.

  “Let us meet him in front of the gatehouse. He needs to see we are serious.”

  “Let’s do that,” said Qurion. He turned to the few men atop the tower. “I need a volunteer to convey the message.”

  Nobody stepped forward.

  “Fine. Morian, you’re volunteering. Go fetch him, and be quick about it. The rest of you, it’s happening. To your positions. I want the picket in place and the drawbridge to the plaza up as soon as this monster’s off the island, is that clear?”

  “Yes captain,” the soldiers said, and ran off to their positions. The small bell in the gable tower of the great hall rang a few moments later. Lucinia imagined the consternation that would cause among her servants. She hoped they would keep their heads and not embarrass her.