Clockwork Lies: Iron Wind (Clockwork Heart trilogy)

by Pagliassotti Dru

  “Come,” Amcathra said, keeping his free hand locked high on Cristof’s upper arm. They walked forward at a measured pace. Taya realized the lictor was supporting her husband in the guise of holding him captive. “Icarus, our bags are by our seats.”

  Cristof stopped and turned, squinting in her direction.

  “Keep moving,” Amcathra growled, jerking the disguised exalted forward. Cristof stumbled and closed his mouth on whatever he’d been about to say.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” Taya promised, locking her wings in tight. She squirmed through the narrow car door, grabbed the two leather cases and the cane that sat there, and hurried back out. Amcathra’s ramrod-straight, black-uniformed back was easy to follow. He paused to sling his rifle over his shoulder and present the Council’s pass to the lictors at the end of the platform. When he gestured, Taya hurried forward to join them.

  “A carriage is waiting for the— for the lieutenant,” she said. The lictors waved them through, and a few minutes later they stood outside the station in a gentle snowfall. Taya scrambled on top of the coach and pulled off her armature, securing it to the roof with Amcathra’s and Cristof’s luggage. The driver, an old friend of hers, tugged the leather straps and nodded with approval.

  She slid into the coach and slammed the door as Amcathra dropped the curtains over the windows.

  “Cris! Are you all right?”

  “Taya.” Her husband smiled and Taya threw her arms around him. “Oof. Ouch. Wait. Let me get out of these cuffs so I can hug you back.”

  “Sorry— can’t wait.” She squeezed him again, more gently this time, and leaned back to study his bruised face. Stitches closed a deep cut over his left eye, and a raw but healing scar broke the concealed castemark on his left cheek. “You look terrible. How are you feeling?”

  “Terrible. Janos is very sparing with the morphine.”

  “It is healthier for you to feel pain and keep a clear head.” Lieutenant Amcathra slid Cristof’s glasses from his coat pocket and handed them to Taya, who eased them onto her husband’s nose as the lictor unlocked the manacles. They fell away with a clatter.

  “There.” Cristof reached up and brushed snow-dampened hair away from Taya’s face, still smiling. “It’s good to see you again.” His fingertips caressed her face, tracing the areas where her own bruises were the same blotchy shade of yellow and green as his. The edges of a bandage were visible under his shirt cuff. She started to ask, but he leaned forward and kissed her, and she decided her questions could wait.

  On the other seat, Amcathra slid the manacles into his overcoat pocket as the coach shuddered and began to move. He set his rifle on the floor between their feet and cleared his throat.

  Taya ended the kiss with reluctance. Cristof’s smile faded as he adjusted his fogged glasses.

  “How soon does the Council want to see me?” he asked, leaning gingerly back in the seat.

  “Now.” Taya studied him, noting all the signs of exhaustion and pain he was trying to hide. “But I think they’ll let you get washed and changed, first.”

  “What have you discovered about the secret sales to the Alzanans?” Amcathra asked, bluntly.

  “We’re— I’m still tracking down the accounts,” she said, evasively. “I need a little more time.”

  “What is being traded?”

  “Metal and machine parts, according to the bills of lading. No weapons, analytical engines, or other proscribed technologies. At least, not officially. So there’s nothing to tell the Council yet.”

  Amcathra gave her an oblique look. “Then I will say nothing about it today.”

  “Thank you.”

  * * *

  Cristof usually abhorred the wireferry, and today Taya was none too happy about riding it, either. The suspended car rocked back and forth in the gusty winter winds as it creaked and groaned up to Oporphyr Tower, which sat on the rocky, wind-scoured top of Ondinium Mountain. The wireferry’s cables were new, replaced last year after they’d been sabotaged, but Taya couldn’t help but remember the accident that had killed Viera’s husband.

  On the other hand, Cristof, for the first time ever, seemed oblivious to the ride. Washed and changed, his castemarks visible once more, he sat in the middle of the car with his eyes closed and his head thrown back against the seat-rest.

  It wasn’t a good sign, Taya thought, when her husband’s exhaustion overcame his fear of heights.

  The wireferry stopped inside a sheltered part of the tower, and lictors escorted them to the Council chamber.

  Taya had only been in the vast circular room once before, when she and Cristof had broken in last year. Her eyes strayed to the oak panel that hid the tunnel to the center of the mountain. If she hadn’t known it was there, she’d never suspect.

  Then she squared her shoulders and moved closer to her husband, who walked to the head of the table and stopped.

  The lictors closed the chamber doors. The ten motionless decaturs seated around the table stirred at last, removing their ivory masks and placing them face-down in front of them. A few shrugged out of their heavy public robes while others only opened them and folded back their overlong sleeves. Murmurs arose as they took a closer look at Cristof’s battered face.

  “A chair for the ambassador,” one of the decaturs said, just as Taya was opening her mouth to make the same suggestion.

  The Council clerk, a highly ranked dedicate licensed to gaze upon the unmasked Council, brought a chair from the side of the room. Cristof sat with obvious relief. Nobody offered Taya a place to sit.

  Irritated, she stepped next to Cristof and rested a hand on the top of his chair to remind them of who she was.

  Although she didn’t really think they’d forgotten. That was the problem.

  “How are you feeling, Cristof?” asked one of the older decaturs, a man Taya had been introduced to a year ago at a ball.

  “Like I was in a train wreck and then dragged halfway across the country,” Cristof said. “You could have permitted me a few more days to recover, Attelus.”

  The decatur sighed and tugged on the collar of one of his inner robes.

  “We could have, but we needed to talk to you before word of your arrival spread. You left Mareaux in something of a mess. Their ambassador has written us several messages inquiring about your health and requesting a meeting to discuss the diplomatic relations between our countries.” Attelus sighed. “Apparently he’s heard rumors that Ondinium plans to declare war on Mareaux. And he doesn’t even know about the derailment yet.”

  “We assume he doesn’t know,” another decatur murmured.

  “Nobody threatened war,” Taya said, defensively. “In fact, we made it clear that we were leaving for security reasons, not out of fear or anger.”

  “What you said and what the Mareaux believe are not necessarily the same thing, Icarus,” Constante pointed out. “The ambassador’s precipitous departure—”

  “Was Lieutenant Amcathra’s idea!” Taya protested. “And as I understand it, he takes his orders from you.”

  “Taya….” Cristof half-turned and gave her a pointed look over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Let me annoy the Council. They’re used to it, and there isn’t much they can do about it anymore.”

  She resisted a moment before giving in with a brusque, unhappy nod. He was right. The Council could confiscate her wings. It couldn’t confiscate Cristof’s birthright. At least, not without a great deal of unpleasant publicity in a city that had recently hailed the eccentric exalted as a hero.

  “We’ve already received Lieutenant Amcathra’s preliminary report,” Constante said. Amcathra must have headed straight to the tower after they’d parted, Taya thought. “Now we’d like to hear your version of events, Cristof.”

  Her husband described what had happened, from the dirigible incident to the poisoning to what he remem
bered of the derailment. He sidestepped the issue of who was in the dirigible’s gondola. Taya wondered if Amcathra had confessed to wearing an exalted’s robes during the disastrous flight. None of the decaturs questioned Cristof’s version, so she supposed not.

  Perhaps the lieutenant didn’t feel obliged to reveal secrets that carried the death penalty.

  Or, she thought with a touch of penitence, perhaps he just didn’t feel obliged to reveal secrets that weren’t threats to Ondinium’s security.

  The decaturs grilled Cristof about his responses to the dirigible crash and the poisoning, what he said to the queen when he pulled the diplomatic party out of Mareaux, his relationship with Rikard, and a multitude of other issues. The questioning seemed endless, and Taya watched her husband with concern, knowing how much he was holding back and seeing the effort it took him. As an hour passed, his answers became more strained, and his copper complexion grew gray and damp with perspiration.

  “Excuse me,” she interrupted at last. She leaned over the chair, blocking the decaturs’ sight, and lowered her voice to a murmur. “I brought the lancet and bottle. Do you need it?”

  A muscle in his cheek twitched as he met her eyes. He nodded.

  “Please, yes.”

  She spun and glowered at the assembly.

  “My husband’s injuries are hurting him. If you’ll excuse us, I’m going to give him an injection for the pain and take him out of here.”

  The decaturs began to speak all at once. Constante rapped on the table with her knuckles.

  “We shall take a short break,” she said, “so that you may administer the exalted’s medication. However, we’re not through questioning him yet.”

  “I think we are,” Taya shot back. Cristof reached out and touched her arm, and she shook him off. “If you have more questions, send someone to talk to him tomorrow, while he’s at home resting.”

  “The icarus is right,” one of the decaturs said, giving her a kind nod. “Let Forlore rest. We have sufficient information to discuss the matter amongst ourselves.”

  “But we need to resolve this political tension with Mareaux as soon as possible,” another objected. “Before the Alzanans step in and take advantage of it!”

  “We don’t need Forlore here for that,” another argued. “He’s not important anymore.”

  “Well, somebody thinks he’s important, or they wouldn’t have gone through so much effort to kill him….”

  “He’s here now.”

  “For the Lady’s sake, the assassin was one of our own lictors! We have no idea how far this corruption extends.”

  “The report said he was a Demican nationalist.”

  “Enough! Enough!” Constante’s voice rose over the disagreement. “Council, that will be enough!”

  Taya stood in front of her husband, her fists clenched, waiting for the decaturs to quiet down. Exalted Constante glanced at her, then looked around the table.

  “It is obvious that we still have a great deal to discuss,” she said, her voice cold. “Perhaps a closed session would be best, after all. Exalted Forlore, Icarus, thank you for your time. We will be in touch.”

  “Thank you, Decaturs,” Cristof said, standing and putting a hand on Taya’s shoulder. She started to step aside, then stopped as she felt his fingers dig into her shoulder for support. “You know where to find us.”

  As soon as they returned to the wireferry, Taya administered the injection.

  “So,” Cristof said, closing his eyes. “Do you think they’ve finally realized that I’m a terrible choice as an ambassador?”

  Taya brushed a strand of black hair away from the stitches in his bruised forehead. He was sweating, and his color was ghastly.

  “As long as I’m in the diplomatic corps, you’re stuck with the job.”

  He opened his eyes, looking strained. “Does that make you the important one, then?”

  “You know, they seemed so polite when I met them at Viera’s party last year.”

  “That was before you married the caste’s most excruciating embarrassment.”

  “Shh; stop that,” Taya scolded.

  Lieutenant Amcathra joined them as the ferry car arrived.

  “Exalted. Icarus.” His pale blue eyes flickered over Cristof, and he took her husband’s arm. “You have given him another shot?”

  “He needed it. Have you been here long?”

  “I reported to the Council before you arrived.” He guided Cristof to a seat in the center of the wireferry car.

  “Are you in as much trouble as we are?”

  “The decaturs are not pleased that my nephew was a political rebel and would-be assassin.”

  “What are they going to do to you?”

  “I have been chastised.”

  “Good thing I didn’t mention that you impersonated me on the dirigible,” Cristof said, leaning back. “They might have slapped your hand. How did you manage to make yourself the Council’s pet, Janos?”

  “I serve to the best of my ability.”

  “Even if it means omitting information from your reports? We’re corrupting him, Taya.”

  Amcathra gave the exalted a disapproving look. “I am giving you an opportunity to gather enough evidence to support your speculation. Your fieldwork was always slow, Exalted Forlore.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Taya was buttering her second scone by the time Cristof dragged himself into the breakfast room, dressed but looking groggy.

  “Good morning,” she said, setting her book aside and reaching for the teapot. She poured him a cup. “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired.” He tilted up his glasses to rub his eyes, careful not to touch the stitches and bruised areas. “But I’m going to try to make it without any painkillers today.” He eased into a chair and reached for the cup and saucer. “Thank—” he froze, his eyes glued to the book in front of her. “What’s that?”

  Taya fought back a smile.

  “Mrs. Melham’s Advice for the Care of Infants. Ann recommended it when she came by to repair your wig.”

  The color drained from his face. He set down his cup and saucer.

  “Why are you reading it?”

  She considered her options and decided to be merciful. He wasn’t well, after all.

  “My sister’s pregnant. The baby’s due in another five months. I’ll fly the book down to her later today, if I have time.”

  Her husband exhaled with relief. “Thank the Lady.”

  “I’ll let her know you were overjoyed on her behalf,” Taya said, dryly.

  “Yes. Delighted. This will make, what, the fifth little annoyance we’ll have rampaging through the house whenever you invite your friends and family over?”

  “The baby isn’t even born yet,” she pointed out. “Much less rampaging. And you shouldn’t call children ‘annoyances.’”

  “I don’t call them that to their faces.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Did Mitta put out any lemon?”

  “Here.” She handed him the plate, smiling to herself. Eventually, Cris would have to get over his aversion to perpetuating the family line. She wasn’t in any hurry to have children, either, but she didn’t expect them to beat the odds forever.

  “Speaking of children, do you know about Amcathra’s niece? The one who’s sick?”

  Cristof sobered and nodded.

  “A respiratory illness. I found out about her a few years ago, when Janos took time off to watch her while his sister was sick.”

  “Rikard thought she’d be better off in Demicus. I think… I think that may have been why he did what he did. To earn the money to take her there.”

  “From what I understand, it wouldn’t help. The damage to her lungs is irreversible. Poor Janos… I wonder what he told his sister? This can’t be easy on him.” Cris
tof raked a hand through his hair. “I told him there wasn’t any blood debt between us. I understand you did the same.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” He frowned. “Although I might have felt differently if Rikard had shot you.”

  Taya waved his words away. “Is there anything we can do for the girl?”

  “I can talk to Janos about it, but he’s a proud man. I don’t think he’ll accept our help.”

  Taya thought it might be better for the lieutenant if someone circumvented his pride for a change, but this wasn’t the time for it. He and his family were going to need time to come to grips with their loss and the scandal, first.

  “The newspapers have discovered that you’re back in town,” she said, drawing his attention to the paper and stack of mail by his arm. He settled back and began to read, frowning. Taya returned to her book, looking forward to visiting her sister Katerin and brother-in-law Tomas. She couldn’t wait to be an aunt.

  “The reporters are saying I was wounded in Mareaux,” Cristof said at last, folding the paper and setting it aside. “The Council won’t be happy about that.”

  “They’ll probably leak the truth about the derailment by this evening’s edition,” Taya predicted.

  “The reporters will stake out the sector gates,” her husband muttered, picking up his mail and a butter knife. “I won’t be able to leave Primus for days.”

  “Good. You need the rest. There’s a letter opener on the tray.”

  “Redundant technology,” he scoffed, using the butter knife to slit open an envelope. He favored his bandaged left hand. Taya hoped it would heal well.

  He glanced at the page and then refolded it, sliding it back into the envelope and setting it to one side.

  “Now you have grease on your letter,” she observed.

  He nodded absently and opened a black-bordered envelope.

  “Macerain’s cremation is in two days.”

  “We should both go.”

  He nodded and opened the third letter, glanced at it, and handed it across the table.