“That’s a Kovalcek Mark Eight ticking in your pocket,” said the woman, “or at least trying to. Don’t see many of them anymore. They used tin for the main spring in that model because it was the middle of the war, and the army needed the steel. Tin stretches like crazy if wound too tightly, and yours is probably twice as long now as it was when it was first made. I’m surprised it hasn’t snapped already.”
“How would you know all of that?”
“Because it’s her job to know,” said Roman. “She’s the clockmaker, right? Either that, or she’s doing a bang-up impression. Use your head, Peril.”
“Wait,” said the clockmaker, “did you say Peril?”
“That’s right,” said Sloot.
“Not Sloot Peril, is it?”
Had they met before? No, it couldn’t be. Sloot took great pains to remember everyone he met because he disliked awkward moments. Especially the ones in which he couldn’t decide whether he had a good reason for feeling awkward.
“Yes,” Sloot eventually responded. “I’m sorry, I―”
“You’re Wilhelm Hapsgalt’s financier, aren’t you?”
“I should think so.” He hadn’t been dismissed yet, but in light of everything that had happened of late, he was worried that it was only a matter of time.
“Lock the door, would you?” She got up from her work and started turning the lights off. Roman turned the lock on the door, and the two of them followed her into the back room of the shop. The walls were lined with clocks in various states of repair. There were tools and contraptions that held no meaning for anyone outside the field of clockmaking—or for Sloot, in any case—and shelves with stacks of springs, gears, and other little bits of machinery that he assumed were all a part of her trade.
There were also dozens of vases of flowers resting among the professional detritus. Sloot barely had a moment to wonder why they were there before she was standing uncomfortably close to him.
“I need you to tell me what he’s said about me,” she said.
“Who, Willie?”
“Wilhelm. Willie, yes. Whatever. I’m afraid I’ve done something to give him the wrong impression, and he won’t leave me alone!”
“I’m very sorry,” said Sloot, “but I can’t seem to remember where we’ve met.”
“We haven’t,” said the woman. “Or rather, we just have.”
“You knew my name.”
“Wilhelm … Willie has mentioned it. One doesn’t easily forget a name like ‘Sloot Peril.’ Sounds sort of Carpathian.”
“It’s not,” said Sloot, who would love to have been named something less remarkable. Anonymity was big with worriers. “So I’m not supposed to know who you are?”
The woman seemed surprised. “He’s in here so often that I assumed he would have mentioned me before.”
“And you are?”
“Greta Urmacher,” Roman interjected. “Her name’s on the door, you know. Have you forgotten how to ingurgitate already?”
“Oh! You’re the clockmaker’s daughter.”
Greta rolled her eyes. “I was the clockmaker’s daughter, now I’m the clockmaker. My father is dead.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sloot.
“It was years ago,” said Greta with a shrug. “If you want to be sorry for something, be sorry for assuming that the person sitting behind the desk—who was clearly repairing a watch—was someone other than the clockmaker! Honestly, who repairs clocks in your tiny village, the blacksmith?”
“I’m from Salzstadt.”
“Then I repair the clocks where you’re from!”
“I’m sorry,” said Sloot. “This is the first time I’ve needed clock repair, I didn’t know. It’s only that I heard you mentioned as ‘the clockmaker’s daughter,’ so I―”
“Never mind,” interrupted Greta, squinting in frustration and waving her hands. “It’s fine, it just happens a lot. Can’t you get Willie to leave me alone?”
“You want your fiancé to leave you alone?” asked Roman.
“Fiancé! You must be joking, who said anything about the two of us being engaged?”
“Er, well, Lord Hapsgalt for one. For two, actually. Both of the Lords Hapsgalt. Willie and his father.”
“This isn’t happening.” Greta buried her face in her hands and started pacing around the room. “I’ve had to rebuff suitors before, but this is getting out of hand!”
“So you’re not engaged to Willie?” asked Sloot.
“Of course not! You’ve seen him, he’s ridiculous!”
Sloot and Roman exchanged a look. She was right of course. If Sloot doubled his estimation of Willie’s mental capacity, he’d still only be half as smart as his wardrobe.
“Look,” said Roman, “Miss Urmacher, I’m not sure what’s transpired between the two of you, but Willie seems certain that the two of you are headed toward marriage.”
“I complimented his shoes.” Greta slumped into a chair and sighed heavily.
“His shoes?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“It’s quite a leap from ‘nice shoes’ to ‘until death do us part,’ Miss Urmacher.”
“I thought so, too,” said Greta. “I’m glad to hear someone else say it as well. Unfortunately, Willie doesn’t seem to recognize the distance between the two.”
“I’m sure other people have complimented his shoes before.” said Sloot. “He spends an awful lot of money on them, I’ve seen it in the ledgers. But I’ve not heard the subject of nuptials come up, except with you.”
“I can’t account for anyone else,” said Greta. “I only know that I said exactly four words to him, and the flowers started turning up the very same day. ‘I like your shoes,’ I said. Then I kept walking.”
“That can’t be it,” said Sloot. “You must have given him a wink or something, or said it in a sultry sort of way, perhaps?”
She was on her feet and pointing a threatening finger in his face with alarming speed. It was the warning finger, not the vulgar one that would have invited a goblin or two to join them.
“I know what I said,” snapped Greta, “and I know how I said it! If you know anything at all about your Willie, you know that I don’t have to be some sort of floozy for him to misunderstand a situation!”
“You’re right,” said Sloot. “I’m terribly sorry for implying, I only thought―”
“Thought what? That Willie was capable of thinking like a sensible person?”
“It sounds ridiculous when you say it.”
“That’s because Willie Hapsgalt is a ridiculous person!” Greta took a step away from Sloot and breathed slowly and deeply, calming herself down. “I’ll repair your Kovalcek Mark Eight. I’ll make it as good as new, no charge. But you’ve got to help me fix this!”
“I don’t know what I could possibly do to―”
“You should give him a chance,” Roman remarked, interrupting Sloot.
“What?” Greta shouted, her fists on her hips. Her voice was like a cat box: low, and full of gravel. Sloot took a step back.
“Hear me out,” said Roman. “He presents himself as a dim-witted idiot, but there are … things at work here. Things I can’t tell you about. It’s a very complicated situation.”
“Complicated situation? Your lord has convinced himself that he and I are engaged to be married. We are not engaged to be married. That is the very length and breadth of an entirely uncomplicated story, as far as I’m concerned!”
“Oh, but there’s so much more to it than that! The entire predicament revolves around Willie’s secret, doesn’t it?” Roman nudged Sloot with an elbow.
“Of course,” said Sloot, pretending he had the foggiest clue what was happening. “It would, wouldn’t it?”
“Secret?” Greta’s fists were still at her hips, meaning that she’d not yet been convince
d that a good kicking wasn’t in order. “What secret?”
“I can’t say,” said Roman. “Willie decides who to bring into his confidence and when to do it.”
“I fear we’ve already said too much,” said Sloot, trying to keep his stomach from spilling its contents. He tended to develop nausea during the act of deceit.
“This is ridiculous,” said Greta. “There is no secret, is there? Your lord is simply a nitwit who’s incapable of treating women like people, and you’re a pair of toadies too afraid of his displeasure!”
“On the contrary,” Sloot retorted, “I’ve delivered far worse news to far scarier people!”
“Name one,” said Greta.
“Well, you, for example.”
“You’re more afraid of me than your lord?”
“At the moment, yes!”
“What he means to say,” said Roman, “is that Lord Hapsgalt—Willie—is a very benevolent and decent fellow, who would never rebuke honesty. Not even if such were vexing.”
“He’s not benevolent, he’s an idiot! I was the target of more effective wooings in kindergarten, by boys whose most inventive flirtations involved mud in my hair. At least they had the nerve to shout ‘do you love me, yes or no?’ Your lord just sends me things like this!”
Greta stormed off through the back door of the shop. Roman and Sloot glanced at each other, shrugged, and followed.
They ended up in a courtyard ringed by the backs of several neighboring buildings. It was nearly entirely occupied by a taxidermied mammoth rampant.
“It came with a note. The note said ‘Hi,’ and had badly drawn hearts all over it.”
“So that’s what he wanted it for,” said Sloot.
“What? You knew about this?”
“Of course we did,” said Roman. “Well, part of it, anyway. Lord Hapsgalt brought us with him on his expedition to Nordheim, where he negotiated most vigorously with the Vikings for it.”
“He went all the way to Nordheim for a stuffed mammoth?”
“He went all the way to Nordheim for you,” said Roman.
It almost worked. Greta’s scowl disappeared for an instant as she looked up at the wooly monstrosity, then she shook her head. Her scowl resumed its position.
“That doesn’t make anything better. I’ve told you, we’ve barely ever spoken! I complimented his shoes, and now he’s invading my courtyard with the preserved remains of prehistoric monsters!”
“I know it seems that way,” said Roman, “but Lord Hapsgalt is actually a very cunning fellow.”
“That’s right,” said Sloot. “He has his secret to protect, and so he must give the impression that he’s a complete imbecile.”
“That doesn’t make any sense!”
“It does,” said Roman, “but only once you know his secret! I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you’ll only give Willie a chance, all will be revealed.”
Greta looked down, her scowl taking on all the hallmarks of utter confusion. She turned to Sloot.
“Is this true?”
There was the nausea. Sloot knew that there was no secret, but he could see Roman giving him that wide-eyed ‘just go along with it’ look. Greta was a nice person who only wanted to be left alone. It seemed unnecessarily cruel to subject her to Willie’s lunacy, but Sloot felt as though he had too many loyalties to take on another.
“Every word of it,” Sloot answered, fighting to keep his bile down.
“Let’s say I believe you,” said Greta, her hands finally falling from her hips. “What happens now?”
“Come to Carpathia with us,” said Roman.
“What?” exclaimed Greta and Sloot in unity.
Had Roman taken leave of his senses? What good were Carpathian Intelligence agents in Carpathia? Sloot’s heart threatened to palpitate its last. It had one foot out the door already. There were plenty of other chests it could go live in, chests that would appreciate it!
“Don’t worry,” said Roman, “you’ll be perfectly safe!”
“Are you mad?” asked Greta, her fists moving hips-wise again. “We can’t go to Carpathia, it’s full of cannibals!”
“That’s mostly propaganda,” said Roman. “Ours and theirs, actually. It’s really quite nice, I’ve been there before.”
“Has Lord Hapsgalt?”
“Not yet,” Roman replied, “but he’s got essential business there. The Hapsgalts are very involved in national security, you know. He’s going on the Domnitor’s orders, long may he reign!”
“The Domnitor?” Greta asked. Roman nodded. “Long may he reign. But why would he want me to go along with him?”
Sloot held up a timid hand. “I don’t know that he―”
“He wouldn’t tell me why,” said Roman. “It pains him to be so secretive, and it’s vexing at times, but I can tell you that His Lordship has never failed to reveal his purpose in the end, and every time it’s made perfect sense! In the end.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“If it’s any enticement,” said Roman, “we’ll be going up into the clock tower in Ulfhaven.”
“Really?” Greta’s suspicious brow-furrowing abandoned its post to make room for a look of curious wonder.
Roman nodded. “Really. One of the oldest and grandest clocks on the continent.”
“I’ve heard stories,” said Greta. “I just imagined that Carpathian savages would have set fire to it during one of their blood orgies or something.”
“More propaganda,” said Roman. “Here’s the thing: that clock stopped working ages ago, and none of the clockmakers in Carpathia have been able to figure out why.”
“Really?”
“It’s an unusual clock, or so I’m told. Doesn’t work like most clocks do. I can’t tell you anything more about it, knowing nothing about clocks, like I … don’t. You’ll have to see for yourself.”
Greta looked up at the mammoth. Sloot envied what he saw in her: courage. He knew it when he saw it, but it was a slippery thing in his experience. Sure, he’d been all the way to Nordheim, survived severe beatings, had stood in the presence of Mrs. Knife, and was so deep undercover in service to the most reviled enemy of the Domnitor, long may he reign, that he barely knew who he was anymore. But courage never had anything to do with it. He’d always been driven by a medley of fear, loyalty and a sincere desire to avoid drawing attention to himself.
“When do we leave?”
***
Sloot fired a multitude of questions on the way back to Whitewood, all of which Roman countered by walking very quickly.
“Not here!” was all he’d say. While Sloot understood the need for discretion, he had needs of his own. Needs that would be met by things like answers, assurances, and simple pleasures like never having to leave Salzstadt again, and certainly not for trips to Carpathia!
“You’ve got to learn to keep a cool head,” said Roman when they were finally alone in the parlor. He thrust a tumbler of whiskey into Sloot’s hand. “Drink that, it’ll help.”
“No, thank you!” said Sloot very firmly, his discomfort starting to boil over. He was very likely feeling something very close to anger just then. He’d always known the day would come, but nothing could have prepared him for it.
“What are you so afraid of? A Carpathian in Carpathia, what could be more natural than that?”
“Probably nothing,” said Sloot, “but you seem to forget that I’m not a Carpathian!”
“It’s in your blood. Your instincts will take over.”
“I doubt my instincts to cower and run will be very helpful the first time a cannibal wearing the skin of his breakfast offers me a flagon of blood.”
“Propaganda! They’ve got you all believing it, poor wretches.”
“Sorry I’m late,” said Myrtle. She closed the door behind her. Sloot sat up a bit straighte
r and wished he’d thought to bring a fistful of lilacs, or some chocolates or something. He remembered reading somewhere that pretty girls like those sorts of things and was curious to test the theory. “What’s the topic of conversation?”
“Propaganda,” said Roman. “Sloot’s head is bloated with it.”
“So was Myrtle’s,” said, well, Myrtle, “before I explained the subtle and insidious barrage of oppression that the ruling class constantly inflicts upon the unsophisticated proletariat.”
“Come again?”
“And that’s the sort of talk that got you beheaded, isn’t it, Arthur?” said Myrtle. “Which only serves to prove my point! Knowledge is power, and those in power will do anything they can to silence the most educated citizens, should they dare to speak truth to their brethren! And sistren, of course.”
“What’s Arthur on about?” asked Sloot.
“Any chance he gets,” Myrtle mumbled, casting her eyes to the ceiling with an apologetic sigh. “He seems to think that the Domnitor, long may he reign, is somehow mistreating his subjects.”
“Long may he reign,” echoed Sloot. “That’s ridiculous! What would have given him that idea?”
“Philosophy,” answered Myrtle with a shrug. No one needed to tell a salt that thinking too deeply inevitably turns up seditious thoughts. The Ministry of Propaganda had spent decades making sure they were all well aware.
“He’s got a point,” said Roman. “You’ll see when we get to Carpathia.”
“We’re going to Carpathia?” asked Myrtle, her eyes going wide.
“He’s only joking!” Sloot stared daggers at Roman and jerked his head tersely in Myrtle’s direction. For a spymaster, he was being rather careless with sensitive information.
“It’s all right,” said Roman. “She knows.”
“She knows?”
“Blood and honor,” said Myrtle, her hand raising in a half-hearted salute.
“What? How did― Why did―”
“What can I say?” said Roman with a shrug. “I’m an excellent judge of character. She seemed like she’d be good for the cause.”
Updated_PerilInTheOldCountry_SamHooker_EbookFormatting_Nook Page 12