Clockwork Lies: Iron Wind (Clockwork Heart trilogy)

by Pagliassotti Dru

  “What is this?” somebody roared over the commotion. “You found a spy?”

  “Yes, sir!” Lucco said, snapping to attention. The other soldiers kept their weapons trained on Cristof, but the straightening of backs and pulling in of elbows indicated that the encampment’s commander had arrived.

  The officer strode forward, his military coat swinging open over a rumpled uniform. It revealed an ornate sword swinging from one hip and a gun holstered on the other. Snow powdered his shoulders and graying hair. Taya studied his face. She’d never seen him before.

  “General,” Cristof said, politely, in Alzanan.

  The general’s eyes flickered to Cristof’s face. He raised an eyebrow. “Exalted?”

  “Exalted?” echoed another, familiar voice. “My goodness, is that you, Ambassador? I’d heard you were dead.”

  Taya clapped a gloved hand over her mouth to stifle an involuntary gasp.

  The newest speaker was Gaio Mazzoletti, resplendent in an Alzanan captain’s uniform. But the figure that had made her gasp stood behind him, one hand on his arm— a tall, copper-skinned Ondinium wearing a tightly buttoned Alzanan military longcoat and an exalted’s blank white mask. He wasn’t wearing traditional robes, but his hands were gloved, and his long black hair hung in thin braids carefully woven back from his masked face.

  Alister?

  Had Alister been meeting the Mazzolettis, that rainy day in Echelles?

  “Gaio Mazzoletti.” Cristof gave the Alzanan a disgusted look. “You’re a long way from Mareaux.”

  “After all the fuss there, I was recalled from the pleasures of diplomacy to the trials of military service. And what brings you so far north, Ambassador?”

  “Be quiet, Captain,” the general snapped. “Decatur, what do you know about this exalted?”

  Silence.

  “General…” Lord Gaio glanced at the assembled troops. “I expect the decatur would appreciate it if you could make this conference private. Not all Ondinium exalteds are as shameless as Forlore.”

  The general gave a disgusted snort. “Caste games.” His eyes fixed on Tazio. “You, sublieutenant. Get your rifle. You and everyone else who found the spy, stay here. The rest of you, search the complex and the surrounding area for other intruders. Go.”

  The soldiers raised their rifles, saluted, and ran out.

  “Very well,” the general continued, his displeasure clear. “This is as private as you’re going to get, Decatur.”

  The Ondinium pulled off his mask, revealing a handsome, older face marred by sunken eyelids over closed eyes. Dark, deeply tattooed slashes broke the wave-shaped castemarks on his cheekbones.

  He wasn’t Alister. He wasn’t anyone Taya had ever seen before.

  “Neuillan,” Cristof said, his tone as disapproving as the general’s. “Still a traitor, even in exile. Don’t honor him with the title ‘Decatur,’ General. He’s outcaste, and he’s certainly not a member of Council anymore.”

  A thin, unpleasant smile twisted the blind exalted’s lips as he pulled off his gloves.

  “You sound older, Cristof. But it seems you’re still poking your sharp little nose where it doesn’t belong.” He stepped forward and touched Cristof’s face. “How is your little brother? I hear you had him outcaste, too.”

  “As far as I know, Alister isn’t betraying his nation to the enemy.”

  Neuillan dropped his hand.

  “I expect he would have gotten around to it eventually, if I weren’t going to save him the effort. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care.”

  “You should. I don’t suppose he appreciated being blinded, scarred, and exiled any more than I did.” Neuillan’s voice hardened, losing its false pleasantness. “And I’m sure he spends as much time thinking about revenge as I do.”

  Taya tensed, touching the flare gun. Maybe if she threatened to blow up the hangar, they’d let her escape with Cristof. Or would they call her bluff? Blowing up the hangar would certainly send a warning to Ondinium, but Taya wasn’t suicidal, and the Lady’s Forge would grow cold and dark before she killed the man she loved.

  “So this is Cristof Forlore, Ondinium’s new ambassador.” The general looked at Lord Gaio. “I thought he was dead.”

  “I thought he was, too,” Gaio admitted. “He looks a little the worse for wear, though, doesn’t he? He must be a remarkably lucky man.”

  “Not lucky enough.” The general turned to address Cristof. “Why shouldn’t I execute you right now?”

  “I’m here to negotiate.”

  “Really, Ambassador?” The general looked amused. “I would have expected more diplomatic fanfare.”

  “I’ve never cared for fanfare. Ask Neuillan.”

  “If Forlore is here, that pet lictor of his is probably here, too,” Mazzoletti warned.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Cristof retorted. “Rikard is dead and Janos is halfway to Kovolo already.”

  “You executed the boy? Not that I regret his loss— he was a terrible assassin. I don’t think his heart was in it.”

  “Janos shot him. Rikard was his nephew.”

  “How very tragic,” Lord Gaio murmured, unsympathetically.

  “If there are any lictors hiding here,” the general said, turning and raising his voice, “I suggest you come out while you still can. We’ll treat you leniently now. If we find you later, we’ll shoot to kill.”

  “What an excellent idea.” Neuillan held out a hand, palm up. “Give me your gun, Captain.”

  “I suggest you use Forlore’s,” Lord Gaio demurred. “Compressed air is so much safer, this close to the dirigibles.”

  Tazio placed the needle gun into Neuillan’s palm. The blind man grasped it with an unpleasant smile.

  Taya stepped forward, pulling out the flare gun. Her heart hammered as she raised it.

  “You may not kill him, Decatur,” the general snapped. “Forlore will be more useful as a hostage.”

  A flash of anger crossed Neuillan’s face.

  “No he won’t,” he spat. “Ondinium isn’t Alzana, General. Ondinium is a machine. This man is no more important to the Council than a broken gear to an engineer. They would rather discard him than allow him to be used against them.”

  “Nevertheless, his knowledge of Ondinium’s defenses will be more current than yours.”

  “He owes me a life, General. I was his guardian when his parents died, and he thanked me by arresting me and sending me off to be blinded and exiled.”

  “Well, as I understand it, you were betraying your country,” the general observed.

  “I was working for your king!”

  “A traitor is a traitor. I doubt you’re any more loyal to King Agosti than you were to your Council.”

  “But you trust him to lead your invasion, General?” Cristof inquired.

  “I am leading this invasion,” the general corrected. “The decatur is only an advisor. Would you like to be an advisor, as well? Perhaps with your assistance we could reduce the amount of collateral damage that will be inflicted upon your country. I should hate to mistake a farming village for a military outpost.”

  “No!” Neuillan shouted, turning and pulling the trigger. Cristof collapsed with a cry of pain.

  The general, Lord Gaio, and Tazio lunged at the decatur as Taya aimed the flare gun at the group. Lucco, Foscatti, and Durante converged on her husband, grabbing his hands as he tore at the long steel needles that pierced his side. Bright crimson blood covered his hands and heavy coat.

  Tears stung her eyes and her finger trembled.

  If she fired, she’d kill everyone in the hangar. And Cristof was still alive— his screams were proof of that.

  “Oh, Lady….” she groaned, jamming the flare gun into her leg pocket. She turned and ran through the door, grabbing Cristof’s backpack
. Someone behind her shouted for a medic.

  She raced past the crates and machinery and yanked open the outer door.

  The camp was abuzz with activity. The wind wasn’t as strong anymore, but snow was falling, thick and cold, and icy air stung her tear-filled eyes. She shot one last look behind her, but the gas processing machinery stood between her and her husband. For a fleeting moment she considered firing her flare gun into it, instead, but no, she didn’t dare, not if there was any chance that Cristof would be harmed by the explosion.

  Hugging the pack close to her chest, she ran past the tracks, past wooden buildings, past a startled guard who shouted out, and through a rutted, frozen dirt road that dragged at her feet. Somebody fired, then fired again. Terrified, she veered away from the gates. More shots. A fence. For a split-second she crouched next to it, panting, while soldiers ran toward her. Then she threw Cristof’s pack over the top of the fence, then fumbled with her weight belt, tossing her lead weights after it. When she was almost light enough to be blown away by a hard breeze, she leaped and scrambled over the barrier.

  On the other side, she found some of the weights and jammed them back onto place, then snatched up Cristof’s pack and continued into the darkness.

  At long last she staggered to a halt, scratched and bleeding. She leaned against the nearest tree, tears running down her face, and vomited, continuing to heave long after her stomach was empty.

  The chasm that had beckoned after the train wreck opened before her once more; a Cristof-shaped hole in her life that left her speechless and sick with horror.

  He was alive. She clung to that, to the terrible memory of his screams. He’d been wounded by a needle gun fired in haste by a blind man. The needles might tear him up, but they probably wouldn’t kill him, not through his coat and clothes. Needle guns weren’t designed to kill.

  She ground her forehead against the cold, sharp bark of the tree, welcoming the pain.

  He’d be fine; they’d take care of him, they needed him as a hostage.

  But he’d been shot in the arm and side— the same arm and side that had been injured in the derailment. Bile burned in the back of her throat. What if something went wrong? What if some half-healed injury re-opened? What if his pain was too much for his heart?

  What if he died while she was standing here feeling sorry for herself?

  She shoved herself away from the tree. Distant shouts indicated that the soldiers were still on alert.

  Taya picked up the pack and waded deeper into the underbrush, her metal wings catching in branches and her booted feet sinking knee-deep into snow. She couldn’t see a thing, and more than once she stumbled and fell. Each time she thought about not getting up, and then she forced herself back to her feet.

  When she couldn’t hear or see the camp anymore, she stopped, panting, and huddled in a gap between two large pines.

  What could she do now?

  Blow up the gas processing plant and smuggle Cristof out of the camp. Hijack the train and drive it back to Kovolo. Steal a dirigible and fly it back to Ondinium.

  Except Cristof would be too injured to move, she didn’t know how to drive a train or fly a dirigible, and a camp full of Alzanan soldiers and Demican clansmen would be shooting at her all the while.

  Lady, please, please, keep him safe, she prayed. He’s already weak — he’s already been wounded — please, you didn’t forge him to die like this!

  Unless, of course, She had. But that thought was no comfort at all, so Taya thrust it away. Whatever purpose the Lady had for her tools, she never used them carelessly. Each soul was reborn to fulfill a distinct purpose in life, and as long as they worked toward that purpose, the Lady would keep them safe.

  Taya couldn’t guess what plans the Lady had made for Cristof, but she knew what the Lady had intended for her. She’d been born to carry messages. And now she had to carry the most important message in her life.

  She lifted the lantern from Cristof’s pack and shook it. A little oil left. She lit it, keeping the beam low. Its glow steadied her. She rummaged through the pack and pulled out half a sausage.

  Half a sausage? It was Cristof’s half from lunch, tucked back into his pack when she hadn’t been paying attention. For a moment she didn’t understand why he’d kept it, and then she did.

  He’d been planning to give it to her for her flight. Because he’d known she’d need the extra energy to reach Kovolo.

  Tears burned her eyes as she jammed it into a pocket and dug into the pack again. His map of Ondinium. His slim leather toolkit. Four scientific journals, rumpled, dog-eared, and covered with scribbles. His cherished, ridiculous-looking headpiece full of magnifying lenses. An empty canteen. A bundle of ammunition for the needle pistol. The pencil she’d taken from the AME freight yard. Her extra lead weights.

  Exactly the kind of useless miscellany she’d expect a gearhead like Cristof to pack, she thought, blinking back fresh tears. She turned out her own pockets.

  The Alzanan map. The morphine needle and a bottle— she wished she’d given them to Cristof to carry in his coat pocket. The watch that he had made her, with a wing engraved on the cover.

  Her wings and compass and safety rope and utility knife.

  What did she need?

  How much could she carry?

  She stared at the stack of goods, her mind blank. Then she picked up the Alzanan map and unfolded it, laying it next to Cristof’s map of Ondinium. The Alzanan map wasn’t as detailed, but it included Demican territory around the border. She located the same spot on Cristof’s map and began to measure.

  They were about forty miles from the border, as the icarus flew; about fifty-five if she angled southwest to Kovolo. The signal station along the border still seemed like her best bet. The strong winds through the mountain pass would slow her down, and she wasn’t at her strongest or most energetic, but if she flew carefully, she could be there in two to two-and-a-half hours.

  She checked the time. Just a little after eleven.

  The heart-shaped ruby her husband had embedded in the face of her watch glittered and made her gasp with a sudden surge of grief. She snapped the case shut and slid the watch back into its pocket, swallowing the lump in her throat.

  The sooner I get to the signal station, the sooner I can come back.

  She took another look at her inventory.

  She needed the canteen, which she filled with snow. Sausage. Maps. Tool case. Flare gun. She stored them all in the courier’s pockets that covered her suit, trying to balance the weight. The lantern was too bulky to carry, although she’d need it on the walk back, but she tucked the matches into a pocket.

  She held the headpiece full of lenses, turning it over and over in her hands.

  Useless. Utterly and completely useless.

  She put it back with the rest of the discards, stood, and tucked the pack high in the branches of one of the pines.

  All right. She picked up the lantern and narrowed the hood, leaving herself only the smallest glimmer of light. She’d hike back to camp to orient herself, and then she’d take off.

  She walked about ten steps before turning back. She found the tree again, pulled down the pack, fished out the headpiece, and crammed it into one of her larger pockets.

  She didn’t have Cristof’s watch, so his ridiculous headpiece would have to keep him safe.

  The lantern helped her avoid the bushes and branches, and the snow had stopped falling at last, but Taya still felt like she was walking in circles until she finally heard the low thrum of engines rumbling through the forest. As soon as she saw the glow of bright lights through the trees, she snuffed out the lantern and advanced more cautiously.

  The camp was flooded with spotlights powered by a noisy generator. To Taya’s dismay, two of the gigantic dirigibles had been moved outside and were floating close to the ground, Alzanan and Demican soldiers
swarming around them. One ship’s engine was rumbling, and the flaps on its tail fins moved back and forth as if being tested. A large lamp mounted on the front of its gondola snapped on, its bright beam piercing the darkness a minute before it was extinguished.

  She bit her lip.

  A searchlight meant that the dirigible could fly at night, which she couldn’t unless she had a well-illuminated destination in sight.

  A small signal station forty miles away in the mountains wasn’t a well-illuminated destination.

  She’d planned to take off at the first light of dawn, but it seemed that the general was taking Cristof’s presence as a sign that he needed to attack at once. Scrap! How fast could he get his ship ready? She fished out her watch and checked it. Almost midnight. She wasn’t sure how quickly the Alzanan vessel moved, but if it left before dawn, it could easily reach the Ondinium border before she could.

  That left her with only one choice.

  She’d have to follow the dirigibles until the sun came up.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Taya expected the entire fleet to launch at once, but only Number Six was being readied for immediate departure. She walked back and forth along the edge of the woods, stamping down the snow in a long track as she ate the last half of the sausage. She kept checking camp for some sign of Cristof, but there was nothing.

  He’s in their hospital, she told herself, fretfully. He’s safe. The temptation to search for him was almost overwhelming, but the milling mass of soldiers and engineers in the encampment deterred her. She’d never be able to sneak into camp unobserved.

  At last the loading was finished. A group of soldiers marched aboard the vessel— ten or twelve, by her uncertain count, which seemed like a small number for an invasion. Then again, the gondolas were compact. With all the crates they’d brought aboard, those twelve men would be packed together inside.

  The gondola doors closed, workers coiled ropes and stored them away, and the giant aerostat’s lights snapped on.