A Clockwork Heart

by Liesel Schwarz

  Patrice let out a chuckle. “I’d hardly call Eleanor a pretty goose. She is most extraordinarily talented when it comes to escaping capture, but you did your best, sir, and I will not hold it against you.” He picked up his bowler hat and stood. “I had better be off then. I am pleased with your news.”

  The commissioner nodded and picked up his knife and fork. He stabbed into his cooling beef even as Patrice turned to go.

  “Battersea Monastery,” Patrice said as soon as he was seated back in the cab.

  “Are you sure?” the driver said. “It’s closed to the public. Lots of rumors of trouble in the area, so it’s best avoided, sir.”

  Patrice inclined his head. “I have an appointment. Now take me there before I change my mind and find another fare. And don’t think I’ll pay for the trip here, either.” Patrice was not interested in debating this with a mere driver and so he balled his fist and stared at him with the promise of violence clear in his eyes.

  The cabbie did not quibble, but drove off at top speed.

  As they made their way through the congested streets, Patrice was pleased to note that London had not changed much since he last visited. Apart from the extension of the rail system, it was still the same cold, damp congested place.

  They slowed to allow a spark-tram to pass. A little newspaper boy ran up next to the carriage and thrust a newspaper at the window. It read SPARK SHORTAGES PLUNGE CITY INTO CRISIS in big bold letters.

  Patrice smiled to himself. This place had not even begun to know what the word crisis meant. It was going to be so satisfying to see these smug people running from the terror that he, Patrice Chevalier or Sir Patrice Abercrombie as he was known in the northern parts of the country, had brought about. Yes, it would be satisfying indeed. But first he had to go and see what his newest clients were up to. The Consortium paid well and he was curious to see the work they had told him about. With their money and influence, they were so much more powerful than the Council. Eleanor would have to wait until later. If Marsh was really gone, then a few hours would not matter. He would pick her up on his way back. The thought of her surprise at seeing him again made him smile. Yes, it would be sweet to deliver the Oracle to the Council on his return journey. This little trip to London was proving to be most profitable indeed.

  The driver refused to drive into the grounds, but instead dropped him off outside the park. This meant he had to walk the last part—a task he did not relish with his bad leg. In fact, his bad leg was something he preferred not to think about at all, if he could help it. The knowledge that he was only half a man who existed partly in the Realm of Light and partly in the Realm of Shadow was a bitter topic indeed.

  Outside the heavy oak doors he paused to knock with his walking cane.

  In answer, a tiding of magpies rose up from the rooftops. “Here! Here! Here!” they crowed as they circled the two lightning collector chimneys high up in the air above him.

  The door opened with a low creak to reveal a monk dressed in the gray robes that the electromancers wore.

  “Good afternoon, monsieur. We have been expecting you,” the monk said. He stepped aside to allow Patrice access.

  Patrice nodded at the monk and stepped inside.

  “Please follow me,” the monk said.

  Patrice suppressed a shiver as they walked. He did not think it possible, but the inside of the monastery was even damper and colder than it was outside.

  He wiggled his knee to allay the aching tingle that ran up and down the bottom half of his body.

  “Everything all right, sir?” the monk asked.

  “Fine. It’s an old injury that plays up when the weather is bad,” Patrice said.

  He was led down into a long corridor that took them through one of the refectories and on to the control room.

  Patrice felt a chill pass over his shoulders. This was a strange place and it made his skin crawl. But he was not a man given to fancy or squeamishness and so he walked on as if he were on a gentle afternoon promenade on the shores of the Mediterranean.

  The lady he came to see was waiting for him on the mezzanine that overlooked the turbine hall.

  Patrice fought the surge of fear and desire that coursed through him as soon as he laid eyes on her. He had been warned about La Dame Blanche, but no number of warnings could prepare him for the physical impact she had on him. On all men, if the legends were to be believed. Harlot.

  “Madame,” he said with a polite smile.

  “Monsieur Chevalier. I am so pleased you have arrived,” she said with a gracious smile.

  “I see you have been busy.” He motioned to the massive machine and the cattle pens that took up large parts of the turbine hall.

  “I have indeed. We have managed to complete almost a thousand of them now. They are all in cells on that side of the building.”

  Patrice felt himself fill with glee. A thousand unstoppable, infallible soldiers who were nothing but utterly obedient was almost enough to overrun London.

  “I will take you to see them a little later. The insertion process is working very well and they are simply splendid specimens.”

  “Quite so, madame. What better soldier is there than one who does not fear anything and who cannot be killed.”

  “Please, call me Clothilde. Would you take a coffee?” she said.

  “I might. But don’t you have anything stronger?”

  She laughed. “Of course. One needs it in this cold damp place.” Clothilde snapped her fingers and a monk appeared with a tray.

  “Absinthe, if you have some,” Patrice said. “And don’t let the fairy out. I like to watch scream when I light my drink. They are such bothersome creatures, are they not?”

  “Indeed. They can be,” the lady said with a tight little smile.

  Patrice sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs. “I have brought the new prototype as requested.” He opened his portmanteau and pulled out a glass case. Inside was a shiny clockwork device, the size of human heart. It was made entirely of silver.

  “Oh, isn’t it lovely. So he has perfected the perpetual motion mechanism. These silver hearts will require no winding, they will simply keep running, yes?”

  “That’s what they claim,” Patrice said.

  Clothilde smiled. “The Clockmaker is indeed a master of his craft,” she said as she took the case from Patrice.

  “And I gather that you have enough silver to replicate this for the second project?”

  “Yes. My men have been hard at work liberating silverware from donors who can afford to part with some of their wealth.”

  “You mean they have been robbing houses?” Patrice said.

  Clothilde shrugged. “If you want to be vulgar about it, I suppose you could call it that.”

  And what about the next stage of the project?” Patrice asked.

  Clothilde looked up. “Ah, Emilian. You have brought the drinks. This is Monsieur Chevalier, our honored guest.”

  Patrice looked round to see a man with dark hair and eyes carrying a tray.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” Emilian bowed and set about pouring their refreshments.

  “We aim to capture the first Nightwalkers for fitting of the devices within the next few days. I believe they would make a splendid addition to our armies,” Clothilde continued the conversation.

  “The chairman will be pleased,” Patrice said.

  Clothilde smiled sweetly. “If the chairman is pleased, then I am pleased.”

  Emilian snorted as he set the fine absinthe glass with the spoon resting over the rim before Patrice.

  “I’m sorry, did you say something?” Patrice said.

  “Ask her about her special project. The one she’s keeping a secret,” he said.

  Patrice looked at Clothilde who was glaring at Emilian with such venom that it made Patrice break out in goose bumps.

  Clothilde gave a shrill little laugh that belied her composure. “Emilian is so impudent. He really should be whipped for being so cheeky,” she said s
weetly.

  Emilian just shrugged, seemingly unimpressed by the fury of his mistress.

  “Special project?” Patrice said.

  “Oh, it’s nothing really. They brought in a most interesting find about a week ago. A man unlike any other. I thought him to be the perfect candidate for some of my advanced tests. I was going to speak to you about the matter when you got here as I know that you are a man who gets things done.” She walked over to him and laid her hand on his arm. “And I was hoping we might be able to help one another. Off the books, as it were.” She gave him one of her most alluring smiles.

  Patrice felt a gentle shiver run through his body that led to a most inconvenient stirring in his loins. It had been the first such stirring Patrice had felt since his accident and he found this to be deeply disturbing in the circumstances.

  “Ah, now that is a completely different situation,” he said without showing his discomfort. He took a sip of the mixed absinthe Emilian had placed before him. Somewhere, a fairy screamed softly.

  “So where is he?” Patrice said.

  Clothilde looked slightly embarrassed. “This is where we ran into a slight problem. We fitted him with one of the special devices the Clockmaker sent, but one of these incompetent little monks let him out for the night with the others. And now he is gone.”

  “Gone?” said Patrice.

  “Someone stole him.”

  “Someone stole him,” he echoed. “And there is no way you can get him back?”

  “We are working on it, but so far we have not been successful.”

  “And why is that?”

  “We haven’t quite managed to locate him yet.” Clothilde toyed with the brass key she wore on a chain around her neck. “We almost caught the thieves but they shot one of my men. Who would have thought it? That a puny little redhead and an even tinier nightwalker could cause so much trouble.

  “Can’t you just catch another specimen and proceed with that?”

  She shook her head. “It is unlikely that we will ever find one as good. I was most surprised when I examined him. A most unusual set of circumstances. Can you imagine my surprise when I started probing him, only to find out that he was a warlock? And not only that, but he also seemed to have bound his own powers within himself?”

  Patrice froze, his drink half way between table and lips.

  “I unbound the man’s powers and tied them to me of course, but even in his reduced state, he fought me.” She gave Patrice another smile. “Which is why I wanted to speak to you. Just think of all the power one could channel through a warlock. There is so much one could do with such an individual.”

  Patrice stared at her, but said nothing.

  “And besides, you are the kind of man who believes in keeping one’s options open, are you not? I believe on doing so too.”

  “And you said the thief was a woman with red hair and a gun.” he said slowly.

  “That’s what they tell me. And they say she was dressed in trousers. Who would have thought it?”

  Patrice rose from his seat. In two strides he walked over and struck Clothilde in the face. The impact of the blow sent her flying to the floor.

  Emilian looked up in surprise at the suddenness of his attack.

  “You stupid woman,” Patrice panted, spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke.

  Clothilde stood up and wiped a thin trickle of blood from her face, too shocked to say anything.

  “Do you even know what you have done?” Patrice shouted back. He loomed over her again, fist at the ready. “Tell me, do you?”

  She shook her head.

  Patrice sat down heavily on the bench and loosened his tie. “Merde. How on earth did you manage to capture the viscount Greychester?”

  “Viscount?” she said.

  “Hugh Marsh, Lord Greychester. Master Warlock. Former member of the Council of Warlocks. Special envoy to the Ministry of Intelligence. And to top it all off, husband to the current serving Oracle.”

  “The Oracle?” Clothilde’s eyes widened in surprise. “The Oracle is in London?”

  “Yes, the Oracle. And I happen to know for a fact that she is little, has red hair, carries a gun and wears trousers. That is her husband you took and she will stop at nothing to get him back.” Patrice rubbed the back of his head and started laughing. “Oh, this is just perfect. And the best part is that you don’t have the faintest idea what you have done.”

  Clothilde had grown deathly pale. The only color in her face was the angry red welt from where Patrice had struck her.

  “What are you talking about?” she said.

  “Never mind that now. But you were very lucky that you called me and not the chairman with this news.”

  “So what do we do?” she said.

  “That is my question exactly. And while we are at it, why are there spark shortages across the city? I thought your orders were to maintain a low presence and to ensure that none of our preparations drew anyone’s attention.”

  “We have been busy. The monks are lazy. After a long night of processing soldiers, they refuse to work the next day. It has been all I could do to get them to do as much as they have.” Clothilde rubbed her brow. “In fact, I have executed so many already that I can hardly afford to lose any more. And yet, it has only made a limited impact on the stupid little brutes.”

  Patrice shook his head. “Well, madame, in a very short time you have brought the city of London to the brink of chaos. You are very lucky that the Consortium have influential contacts within Scotland Yard who have been able to quash most of the questions which have been raised as a result of your activities.”

  “I have done exactly as the Consortium ordered,” Clothilde said with no small amount of indignation.

  Patrice shook his head. “Added to that, you have provoked the wrath of the most powerful Oracle of our age by stealing her husband. I would say that you have done an extremely poor job. And I shall have to make mention of this in my report.”

  “Surely she cannot be all that?” Clothilde said looking uneasy.

  “Oh yes she can!” Patrice shook his head and lifted his trouser to reveal his leg. It was a very unpleasant sight. Part of the limb was black as night and translucent as if it was in a completely different plane of existence. The skin around the affected area was covered in an array of terrible bruises that ranged from yellowy-green to the blackest of purples.

  Clothilde gasped when she saw it.

  “Yes, gasp and feel horrified, my lady. For this is what that little redhead in trousers, as you call her, did to me. And she is going to crush you until you are nothing more than a little pile of meaningless dust, you stupid, stupid woman.”

  Clothilde sank into a chair. She stared at Patrice for long moments before she spoke. “There must be a way we can salvage this situation.”

  “There had better be. Because I am not leaving London until you have fixed this mess.”

  She turned and gave him a radiant smile. “I think I have a plan. And one that will resolve all of our obstacles in one brilliant stroke. But first I need to think about the details.”

  A gong sounded somewhere deep inside the monastery, signaling nightfall.

  Clothilde closed her eyes and moved her hands in a swirling motion. Patrice felt an icy draft in the back of his neck and then great big clouds of fog started swirling upward and out of the chimneys above them.

  She opened her eyes and stood. “The fog is set and it is time to set the hunters free. Every night they bring more and more candidates. We process them as fast as the machine can produce chest devices and muzzles. By day, it stamps out the spare parts and by night it implants them into the new recruits. It is quite a remarkable thing.” She gestured out of the control room window at the machine in the turbine hall. “Once we have built the chairman’s army, I intend to diversify. Just think of the legions of servants, drivers and workers we could create. They would require minimum food and lodgings and would be capable of doing three times the work that a li
ving worker could do. We are sitting on a veritable goldmine of opportunity.”

  Patrice frowned. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to adapt the machine to diversify. But then again, if there was a chance that money could be made …

  “Well, the automaton market has never quite taken off as everyone had hoped. The machines are too unreliable and expensive to maintain. But with these organic automatons, we could be onto something,” he said.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Clothilde said. “But say, let’s go and watch as the monks set the hunters free.” Below them, a group of undead soldiers were being marched out into the pens. Some of them were shackled.

  “Those ones are the most aggressive. We stole them from a prison. They are the best ones for the task of finding more recruits. They run well as a pack and we can send them out completely unsupervised, so effective has the training been.”

  “Fascinating,” Patrice said. He heard a small sound to his left. Before he could react, a large hand grabbed him by the neck and pushed him to the floor. A pair of cold shackles clicked around his wrists with alarming finality.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he shouted. “Release me immediately!”

  “Thank you, Emilian, well done. You may have bought a few more days of life for yourself.” Clothilde laughed and pressed her fingers to her décolletage in amusement. “Oh, Mr. Chevalier. Can I call you Patrice? Did you honestly think you could walk in here, assault and intimidate me, and I would meekly sit back and endure it?”

  “You don’t know who you are dealing with. Now let me go immediately!”

  She smiled. “I am dealing with a former airfield clerk who, by virtue of a series of unfortunate events, managed to acquire a lot of money and a dip in the black vortex. And while it is most unfortunate that my servant here let the cat out of the bag, as it were, I also know that you arrived in London alone and that despite all your bravado and brutish behavior, you really cannot do anything else but shout.”

  “I said, release me immediately!” he screamed.

  Clothilde patted him affectionately. “All in good time, my dear.”

  She turned to the two undead guards who had appeared at the door. “Take him to my laboratory. And make sure he is locked up securely. I don’t want this slimy little worm from the provinces escaping.”