Clockwork Heart

by Dru Pagliassotti

  “They have ondium cores,” Cristof said, returning with a basin and two hand towels. He put them on the table beneath the floating armature. “Wash your hand.”

  “They’re beautiful.” She pulled herself away. Blood stained the cold water as she rubbed the cuts clean. “Are you repairing them for someone?”

  “They’re mine.” Cristof held out a handkerchief, and she pressed it against her cuts. He’d washed his hands, too, she noted, but grease still smudged his shirt cuffs and the sharp bridge of his nose, where he must have touched his face to push up his glasses.

  “Do they really fly?”

  “Let me see your shoulder. The cut might not bother you now, but your harness will irritate it.”

  “I don’t think it’s too bad.” She tried to crane her neck around to see it. “It aches, but it doesn’t hurt much.”

  “Let me see,” he repeated, impatiently.

  She made a face, then unbuttoned the flight suit’s high collar, down to the top of her breasts. A clock repairman wouldn’t be her first choice of physician, but she supposed he was better than nothing.

  “This may sting.” Cristof lifted the suit away from her bare shoulder. The suit’s cotton padding stuck to the coagulating blood as it peeled away, and she winced. Cristof pressed a wet towel between her suit and skin.

  Taya shivered as cold water dripped down her back. The outcaste’s fingers were cold, too, as he touched the edges of the cut.

  “You’re right. It’s shallow. Have a physician look at it tomorrow. It shouldn’t impair your flight tonight.” Cristof’s voice was as detached as it had been when he’d reported on the status of her wings. She remembered Decatur Forlore’s quip about the repairman’s way with machines and felt a flash of amusement. He had worried about her armature first and her wounds second, hadn’t he? She imagined the exalted touched his broken clocks with exactly the same care and dispassion with which he’d touched her bare shoulder.

  He laid the bloodstained towel on the table and picked up the clean one, pressing it over the cut. “That will be enough of a bandage for the flight to your eyrie.”

  “Thank you.” She buttoned her suit and reached for the floating harness.

  “Give the cuts on your hand a few more minutes to clot.” He pushed up his spectacles, turning away. “Do you want to see them fly?”

  Taya studied his back, confused by the sudden change of subject. Then she remembered the mechanical birds.

  “Please. If you don’t mind.”

  He untied one of the toys, holding it gently as he wound the key. The gaslight flashed on his glasses again.

  “My mother gave these to my brother and me, when we were little.” He held the bird up with both hands and spread his fingers.

  The clockwork wings beat and the little bird took off, darting across the room and hitting the opposite wall. It floated there, its beak pressed against the wall and its wings still flapping uselessly.

  Cristof walked across the room and turned it with one finger. The bird flew away again, coming to an abrupt stop at the next wall.

  “They’re meant to be used outdoors,” he said. “Or in a very long hallway, preferably with an unsuspecting adult at the other end.”

  Taya laughed, and for a brief instant Cristof’s thin lips twisted upward in response. He retrieved the bird. Its wings were winding down, their beating slowing, but its ondium core kept it floating between his hands.

  “My brother broke this one and threw it away. I decided to fix it for him. It took me six years to learn how, but now it flies as well as ever.” Pride shone in his pale eyes as he regarded the tiny mechanism. “Nobody makes these anymore. Using ondium in a children’s toy is too much of an extravagance now that the main veins have been tapped out.”

  “I think they’re wonderful.” Taya smiled. “Did you give it back to your brother?”

  “No. By the time I’d fixed it, he’d moved on to other toys and didn’t want it anymore.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad.”

  “It’s typical.” He turned and tied the bird back to the shelf. “Alister adores his toys until they disappoint him. Then he throws them away.” His voice turned sour.

  “Alister?” Taya felt a jolt of recognition. She’d already heard Cristof use that name once today. “You don’t mean—” But of course he did. It made perfect sense. “Decatur Forlore is your brother?”

  Cristof’s hands stopped.

  “I thought you knew.”

  “No, I didn’t.” She faltered. “But, if he’s your brother, why are you living down here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he’s a decatur, and he’s still speaking to you, so why doesn’t he bring you back to Primus?”

  “I have no interest in going back to Primus.” His voice had turned cold, but Taya forged on.

  “But you don’t want to be outcaste, do you?”

  Face twisting in rage, Cristof turned and slammed a hand down on the table.

  “My brother and my caste are none of your business, Icarus!”

  Taya flinched, then slid off the chair and dropped to one knee, pressing her palm against her forehead.

  “I’m sorry, Exalted,” she said, furious at herself. How could she have forgotten her manners around an exalted, even an exalted in exile? Some future diplomat!

  “Stand up.” Cristof’s voice was tight.

  She glanced at him. His face was pale with anger. She bowed again, feeling sick.

  “I’m sorry, Exalted,” she repeated.

  “Dammit, Icarus, stand up!”

  She scrambled to her feet, bracing herself for a slap.

  “Look at me!”

  She risked another glance and saw him glaring at her. She dropped her eyes again, not daring to anger him any further.

  “You see?” he asked bitterly. “That’s exactly what I hate about my caste. You’re brave enough to stab a Demican who’s twice as tall and as strong as you are, but all an exalted has to do is raise his voice and you’re on your knees.”

  “I apologize,” she said. “I was out of line.”

  “Look at me when you speak. You’re not a slave.”

  She swallowed and looked up.

  He started to say something, then closed his mouth and scowled. For a second the only sound in the shop was the ticking and whirring of clockwork. They stared at each other.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Taya Icarus, Exalted.”

  “Icarii stand outside the traditional caste hierarchy. The next time an exalted shouts at you, stay on your feet and answer him like an equal.”

  “I can’t do that, Exalted Forlore.”

  “Why not?” His voice was sharp.

  “It wouldn’t be respectful. An exalted could take away my wings.” She shivered at the thought. “I’m sorry I made you angry.”

  “I’m not going to take away your wings, Icarus. I’m barely an exalted now, anyway.”

  “You still wear the castemarks.”

  He touched his copper-skinned cheek, his scowl deepening.

  “Do you think wearing them makes me a coward? Do you think I should burn them away, or ink them over?”

  “No,” she protested, sensing she was on dangerous ground again. This man is a test in diplomacy all by himself. She reached for her armature, pulling it toward her and untying it from the table. The sooner she could get out of here, the better. “I think you’d be foolish to give up your caste. The Lady granted you an exalted rebirth for a reason, and it would be a sin to treat it lightly.”

  He fell silent as she slipped on her armature and reached for its buckles.

  “Do you like being an icarus?”

  “Yes, Exalted.” She tightened the straps. The cut on her shoulder
was going to hurt on the way back up, but she was eager to leave. “I wouldn’t want to be anything else.”

  “Then it would be foolish of the Council to take away your wings at the whim of an angry exalted. The city barely has enough icarii as it is. If you understood how valuable you were to Ondinium, you wouldn’t be so intimidated by authority.”

  “I have to adjust this outside,” she said, sliding her arms into the wings long enough to lock them into tight-rest close to her body. She lost no time escaping the small, noisy shop but, to her chagrin, Cristof followed.

  Outside, light from the gas streetlamps washed the narrow street in black and white. Taya unlocked her wings and spread them out, testing the joints and tilt, making sure the feathers closed and opened correctly. Everything seemed to function.

  “Go straight back to your eyrie until you can get your shoulder tended,” Cristof directed.

  “I will.” His peremptory tone was grating, especially after he’d made such a fuss over icarii being equal to exalteds. She had to bite back the urge to point out his hypocrisy. “I—”

  The clocks in his shop began to chime, a hundred different bells ringing at the same instant.

  A loud explosion ripped through the air and the ground trembled.

  Taya whipped around and saw flames rising in the distance. She took a step forward.

  “Don’t!” Cristof snapped.

  “They’ll need—”

  “Others will attend to it.” Cristof grasped her arm. “Your armature is damaged and you’ve been hurt. You’ll only be a danger to yourself and the rescue crew.”

  Taya laughed humorlessly and pulled away from him.

  “Sorry, Exalted. Equal to equal, I’ve got a job to do, and I don’t have time to argue with you about it.”

  He cursed as she ran down the street and lifted her wings to catch the wind.

  Chapter Four

  The cook at Taya’s eyrie brewed tea out of the bitterest black leaves ever exported from Cabiel. Normally the drink was enough to give the twenty or so icarii who lived at the boarding house the jolt they needed to face the day, but this morning Taya yawned over her cup and wondered if she could get away with going back to bed for a few more hours. Her muscles ached, her cuts throbbed, and her wings were in the smith’s shop being repaired.

  “Hey, Taya!” Pyke burst in, waving a newspaper. “You’re awake!”

  “Barely.” She shifted as he sat next to her and spread out the pages of The Watchman. The ink smelled fresh, and Pyke’s fingers were smeared with black as he stabbed at the headline that blazed across the front page.

  TERRORISM!

  Torn Cards Attack Wireferry, Refinery

  Night of Horror!

  Taya frowned and skipped down the stack of headers to the story.

  “You’re in there,” Pyke said, pointing. “Both of us get a mention, but you’re the hero, see?”

  “I don’t remember seeing any reporters there.” She read further, then gasped. “Look! They quoted me! I never said that!”

  Pyke laughed and read the paragraph aloud.

  “‘I was only doing my duty,’ the modest icarus said. ‘I’m grateful that Lady Octavus and her son are safe and that I was given this chance to serve my city.’ Like you wouldn’t have said that if they’d asked.”

  “I don’t think Taya would have used that ‘serve my city’ line,” Cassilta said, breezing in and dropping into a chair at their table. “It sounds fake.”

  “It’s all fake,” Taya protested. “The only person I talked to was a lictor, and that was just to give him my statement.”

  “Well, that’s the glory of a free press.” Cassi grinned at her. “It’s free to make up anything it wants.”

  “You should be flattered,” Pyke grumbled. “Nobody faked an interview with me.”

  “You were just as important,” Taya assured him. Without his help, both she and Viera Octavus would have died, or at least been crippled on impact. But only another icarus was likely to realize that.

  “I’d love to hear what you’d tell the papers, Pyke.” Cassilta pried the cup of tea from Taya’s hand and took a sip. “Ick, it’s cold. Stay there. I’ll get fresh cups.”

  “Believe me, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Late night at the wedding?” Pyke leaned back in his chair.

  “Not really. But—”

  “Don’t talk about the wedding until I’m back!” Cassilta shouted across the dining room, balancing three cups in her hands. She wove back through the tables and rejoined them. “Okay. How was it?”

  Taya began to tell them about the ceremony. After a few minutes Pyke returned to his paper, leaving the discussion of food and dresses and babies to the two women. She didn’t tell them she’d nearly been mugged. She didn’t want to hear any lectures about walking alone through Tertius at night.

  “Hey, Taya, did you see the fire last night?” Pyke interrupted, peering over the paper. “It wasn’t far from your old neighborhood.”

  “I saw it.” Taya took a sip of the stomach-dissolving tea to collect her thoughts. “I flew over in case I was needed, but they got everything under control pretty fast.” She’d lingered long enough to report the icarus-hunters to the lictors. They’d promised to look for the three foreigners as soon as they had a chance.

  “The Watchman says they think it was a bomb. Apparently the stripes are suspicious because the refinery blew up right at the stroke of eleven.”

  “Yes, it did.” Taya remembered the clocks ringing the hour in Cristof’s shop. “Did they find any bomb parts?”

  “Not by the time the paper went to press.” Pyke turned a page. “I’ll pick up a copy of the Evening Dispatch tonight. Maybe they’ll know more by then.”

  Taya looked at the ink stains on his fingers and remembered Cristof. She’d thought the repairman’s dirty hands had meant he didn’t care about cleanliness, but his workshop had been neat, and he’d been annoyed by the mess her bloody hands had made.

  And he’d washed his hands as soon as he’d left the room.

  So, why had they been dirty in the first place?

  Could he have been walking back from the refinery?

  No. That was ridiculous. A thousand blessed rebirths did not produce a terrorist. An outcaste, maybe, but not a terrorist.

  Although there had been Decatur Neuillan’s treason…

  “Hey, Taya!” An icarus with her wings folded down walked into the dining room, waving a letter. “Message for you!”

  “I’m here.” Taya stood, surprised. Mail was usually kept for icarii at the dispatch office. She took the heavy parchment envelope with curiosity. A large, painted wax seal and gold ribbon held it closed.

  “I brought it straight from the Octavus estate.” The icarus grinned. “I was told to put it in your hands. I’m glad you’re not out flying messages already.”

  “You’re Ranelle, aren’t you?” Taya remembered the younger girl; she’d been a few classes after Taya’s.

  “Yes.” The girl looked gratified at being recognized. “That was really amazing, what you did yesterday. Everyone’s talking about it. All the fledglings are begging their teachers to run rescue drills today.”

  “Thanks.” Embarrassed, Taya turned the envelope over in her hands.

  “Well… I’d better get going.” The girl sounded reluctant. “Bye, Taya.”

  “Fly safely.”

  Taya felt the whole room’s eyes on her as she sat back down. She put the letter on the table and stole a glance at her friends.

  “You might as well open it here,” Cassi said pragmatically. “Whatever it says, it’s going to be all over the eyrie in a matter of minutes.”

  “It’ll be a thank-you,” Taya guessed, picking up a butter knife and wiping it clean on a napkin. Sh
e eased the seal up, unwilling to break such a beautiful object.

  The letter was on vellum, inked in three colors; black for the text, red for the proper names, and gold around each capital letter. Cassi gasped, leaning over her shoulder. Neither of them had ever seen such ornate script before.

  “Must be nice to have that much time to spend on a letter,” Pyke remarked. Cassi elbowed him in the ribs. “Oh, sorry, the exalted didn’t have to spend any time on it. Some poor sap of a dedicate clerk did all the work.”

  “‘To Taya Icarus, greetings,’” Taya read aloud for her friends. The rest of the dining hall fell silent as everyone listened. Even the cook stood in the doorway, drying a platter. “‘To offer thanksgiving and gratitude for your timely rescue of Exalted Viera Octavus and Exalted Ariq Octavus, and to celebrate perils overcome, you are invited as the guest of honor to Estate Octavus for a formal evening of dinner and dancing.’”

  The other icarii in the room broke into applause. Taya turned red, reading further. “Oh, scrap! What am I going to wear?”

  Pyke groaned.

  “I don’t believe that was the first thing to come out of your mouth,” he said with disgust. “How about an observation about the comparative value of dinner and dancing to the life of a wife and a child? Not to mention your own life, which was equally at risk.”

  “What would you want?” Cassilta asked, scornfully.

  “A purse of gold masks,” he replied at once. “Five hundred, a thousand, maybe. Something useful. I notice the exalted didn’t send me an invitation.”

  “Pyke, you’re cute but shallow,” Cassi said. “Prestige is a lot more useful than money.”

  “Sure. That’s what they want you to think. That’s how they keep us in line. Prestige won’t buy an army. Poor people can’t fund a revolution.”

  “Cassi!” Taya turned to her friend, mentally running through her limited wardrobe. She was an icarus, for the Lady’s sake! She didn’t own fancy clothes. “Can I wear my armature? Please tell me I can wear my wings.”