Infernal Machines

by Jacobs, John Hornor

  Tenebrae disappeared quickly, though not before giving our father a terse greeting. As he left, he paused to look at me, and I could not help but think there was some tense unsaid thing between him and myself. He opened his mouth as if he wished to speak and then closed it and left our presence.

  Father took Fiscelion and made inane, cooing noises to him. ‘He has the Cornelian complexion,’ he announced, and waggled the baby’s chubby hand. Fiscelion didn’t enjoy that, and began the prelude to outright crying. ‘And something about the eyes, I think,’ Father said.

  ‘Will we show him to his grandfather?’ I asked, observing Father closely.

  ‘You are, presently,’ he said, looking into Fiscelion’s face.

  ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Carnelia and I are the daughters of Tamberlaine, now. Thanks to the damned diplomatic mission that killed our brother. Did you know of this? Have you been informed of the events and the Emperor’s manipulations?’

  He opened his mouth, shut it. The muscles in his stubbled cheek tightened, a tic began beneath his eye.

  Once Fiscelion began to cry, he handed him back to me. He blinked rapidly as if seeing us for the first time. Awkwardly, he embraced first me, and then Carnelia.

  ‘’Nelia, you’ve put on weight,’ Father said, glancing over us. ‘It’s quite becoming. It seems a long sea journey flatters you. Sad that it will be your last.’

  ‘Ah, so we are to remain here?’ Carnelia said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, wiping his hands on the hem of his toga minima, as if to rid himself of the grime of handling an infant. ‘Tamberlaine has arranged marriages for both of you that will occur before midwinter.’

  I nodded my understanding, if not acceptance, and glanced at Carnelia, who met my gaze.

  ‘Before you say anything,’ Father said, ‘I too liked Fisk. He is an able man and I was happy for you to remain wedded to him. But the political wind has shifted and there is no denying our Great Father.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Hate me if you will, but it is out of my control,’ he said and slumped his shoulders.

  All of life, a diminution. Maybe all size is relative. The world grows large and he remains the same – small and withered and drunk. Dispossessed.

  But there he stood, dishevelled, like some crossroads prophet preaching for bread in the morning, through the day for alms, and begging for a cup of wine at the end of it.

  ‘And me?’ Carnelia asked. ‘Who am I to wed?’ She did a little hop of excitement and smiled. For a moment, it was easy to believe that she was the same frivolous sister, full of mischief and snark. Except her smile did not touch her eyes.

  ‘You will wed Brenus Galvanius Caelo, senator and legate of the Latinum Fifth. He’s quite the rising star.’

  Carnelia clapped and kissed Father and he gave the vacuous, half-placating, half-annoyed expression that marked most of his dealings with Carnelia, or at least had in the past.

  ‘And for me?’ I asked.

  ‘Messala Corvinus has been widowed and his dealings in the North have quite pleased Tamberlaine, and so in addition to a governorship, he will take you as wife.’

  Corvinus was Father’s age, though still hale and virile. His wife had been a beauty, pale and translucent as aged vellum beaten thin, and I couldn’t imagine what death might have surprised her. I had known the man since I was a child.

  I bowed my head in acceptance. ‘There is nothing I can do but accept.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Father said. ‘I’m glad you see the sense of your situation. I feared you might—’

  ‘You feared I might what, Tata?’ I asked, raising my eyebrow.

  ‘Rebel. You have never really taken to being told what to do.’

  I patted his arm, kissed his stubbled cheek. You have no Ia-damned idea, Father.

  ‘You look terrible,’ I said. ‘How much have you been drinking?’

  He scrutinised me for a moment with glazed eyes. ‘Enough to wash away the shitstorm of the debacle in Far Tchinee. They’ve fallen into civil war. And these praetorians would be marching you to the Spire to be tossed to your deaths had not you succeeded by failing. Kithai is no longer a player on the knightboard. They have fallen to their own internal pressures.’ He pursed his lips and then spat into the waters. ‘But Tamberlaine punished me anyway and stripped me of my governorship in Occidentalia.’ He was silent and his gaze moved across my features, maybe searching me for the ghost of my brother’s visage. ‘Enough to forget, for a moment, that all my sons are dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Carnelia said. ‘For the loss of our brother. And that we are all that is left to you. He died protecting us.’

  Our father fell silent and bowed his head, thinking. After a moment, he said, ‘And the body?’

  ‘Packed in a cask of oil.’ I pointed to the stevedores moving our chests and baggage, and the large cask where our brother’s body was stored.

  ‘I would look upon him before burial,’ Father said.

  And I thought, I’m sorry, Secundus, but I will not be the one to bury you.

  ‘Sun Huáng tells me that the oil acts as a preservative, but the flesh becomes soft, and he will only just resemble our brother and your son. It has been two months since his death,’ I said.

  ‘I would still see him,’ he replied, and turning, walked back to the carriage, limping, his false bear leg stumping against the planks of the pier.

  After an exchanged look, Carnelia and I joined him.

  It began to rain, as if night wore the storm as a gown, trailing streamers of droplets as it came, and darkness followed as its handmaid. Father did not speak during the ride but looked out at the rain-slicked cobbles of Rume’s streets, the myriad paths marching up the Cælian, the dull, unlit faces of villas and insulae passing silent as sentinels as we progressed. The deluge made a percussive, atonal patter on the carriage rooftop and conversation was impossible.

  The villa was sombre when we arrived, and Fuqua – Father’s manumitted head of household – stood on the doorstep with a powerful mirrored daemonlight lantern in one hand and a concerned expression upon his face. He bowed to Father as our Cornelian patriarch passed inside, wordlessly. I had never seen Father act this way and part of me wanted to comfort him, but the harder, incalcitrant core of me could not: he had help orchestrate our brother’s demise, either by outright collusion or lack of spine. Either way, I could not assuage whatever grief or guilt churned in him. Nor in myself.

  Fuqua greeted Carnelia and me by name and acknowledged Lupina, who bore Fiscelion upon her breast. The head of household peered at the boy and held a hand up when Lupina made to enter the Cornelian villa, as if he were a guard requesting a bribe or toll. A smile split Lupina’s wide, genial face, and she pulled the swaddling away from Fiscelion’s face and for a moment Fuqua made googly faces and ridiculous noises in the doorway. Fiscelion gurgled and cooed.

  Glancing into the villa, and then to me, Fuqua said from the corner of his mouth in a casual yet hushed tone, ‘Your father’s been in terrible shape since he heard the news of Secundus via those bloody contraptions. I only heard of his response to Gnaeus’ sad end second-hand, but I was witness to his devastation at this loss. The only thing that has allowed him to—’ He gave another look to the interior of the building, as if fearing to be overheard ‘—keep his shite together has been the knowledge that this little lad was coming home, and the fear of Tamberlaine himself.’

  Fiscelion grabbed Fuqua’s finger and Fuqua waggled it, making idiotic faces. ‘That’s right, that’s right, little master. Who’s the chubbiest little man? The chubbiest maxiumus? Who is?’

  ‘Thank you, Fuqua,’ Carnelia said. ‘For the telling. We will not forget.’

  A procession of expressions promenaded across his face. He was a Cornelian man, through and through. Rumour had it that after forty years of slavery under Father’s hand he asked to remain a slave, when Father offered him his manumission. Freedom was forced upon him, a horse field-shy and
reluctant to leave the barn.

  ‘You will be brought before Tamberlaine tomorrow,’ he said. It came out in a rush.

  ‘What?’ Carnelia spat. ‘I will not.’

  I placed my hand on her arm, stilling her.

  ‘It will be interesting, I think, to hear our Great Father’s take on our house’s misfortune,’ I said.

  ‘And his part to play in it,’ Carnelia said.

  Fuqua’s expression became worried. ‘I am just a servant and know nothing of these things.’ He turned to go inside. ‘I should not have spoken.’

  Carnelia, moving in an easy, gliding movement, interposed herself in front of Fuqua. It was like oil, the way she moved. ‘Thank you, Fuqua, for your candour. We truly are in your debt.’

  ‘It is nothing,’ he said. ‘Your father will drink. In his study. I have prepared cold dinners and clear wine for you in your rooms. It waits for you now.’

  Carnelia held her place for a moment, until it drew out until the stretching point, and then moved aside. Fuqua scurried past her.

  Once he was gone, Carnelia said, ‘He keeps the purse. We will have to visit him.’ Her expression was grim. ‘Later.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But he will not be harmed.’

  Carnelia opened her hands. ‘We’ll see. If it’s between his life and our freedom—’ Carnelia made a little twisting gesture with her hand, as if she was snapping a dove’s neck.

  ‘No harm.’

  Carnelia made no response and turned from me to enter our ancestral home.

  We had unpacked and supped on the meats and cheeses, bread and olives, that Fuqua had provided. Lupina poured us wine – fine, rich Ruman wine, the only consolation for being back in this Ia-forsaken city. Fiscelion slumbered in a crib that Father (or more likely Fuqua) had had the forethought to procure for us.

  From my weathered travel chest I withdrew the sawn-off shotgun that I’d carried over half the known world, and its sweat-stained bandolier. Its grip was hand-sweet and welcome. Would that I had a pistol or carbine for more range, but all in all, this gun took the form of comfort in blued-steel and wood and Hellfire.

  Fifteen shells gleamed on the chamois cloth I’d placed on the bed’s coverlet. Only fifteen Hellfire shells to get me to Occidentalia unless I could find an engineer. I picked up each one and wiped the casing clean, checking the wardings for scratches or marring. Somewhere, a world away, my husband might be doing the same. I hoped he was not in such dire straits as me and, like me, had his most boon companion at his side – Mister Ilys. Shoestring.

  I can allow this sentiment here, where Carnelia, and Lupina, cannot see it – I am powerfully afraid. Afraid for myself, afraid for my child and husband, and afraid for my loved ones.

  Carnelia noticed what I was doing and came over. She placed her jian on the bed and then went to her chest and withdrew a gunbelt.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ I asked. Guns are expensive and ammunition even more so.

  Carnelia flushed. ‘Do you remember that cavalry praefect in New Damnation? The handsome one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He was a regular at our hotel. I came to know him some, while Father and Gnaeus were whoring at Pauline’s,’ she said.

  ‘I remember Pauline’s. I had to retrieve them one night when Marcellus’ legatus came calling.’

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘From him.’

  ‘Surely he did not give it to you.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Carnelia said. When I looked at her closely, she said, ‘I don’t know why I took it. But I did. It’s a wild, frightening country there.’

  ‘The question is, how did you steal it?’ I asked.

  Carnelia blushed even deeper. ‘I’m always getting into things that don’t belong to me.’

  That answers that.

  ‘Or are those things getting into you,’ I said. ‘Ia’s bones, sissy, the only thing that saved you from being tried in an open court for thievery was your father’s name and position!’

  ‘I’m not proud of myself, Livia,’ she said, and the blush was gone. ‘But I have it still. Would you rather me package the Ia-damned thing up and send it back to Praefect Bullus?’

  ‘Bullus?’

  ‘Family name,’ she said. Her face took on the coy look she usually reserved for Father.

  ‘Never mind.’

  Carnelia oiled the pistol and checked the rounds, of which she had but twelve. She sniffed, looking down at where the two weapons and their ammunition lay spread across the chamois cloth. ‘Thank the gods for my jian, sissy, for we are desperate shy on Hellfire.’

  ‘We will make do with what we have. And we’ll have Fuqua take us to Father’s office.’

  ‘He will balk,’ she said.

  ‘And we will convince him otherwise.’

  The hour was late though we had not yet reached the middle of the night. Lupina watched us from a chair, where she was brushing and oiling our high-boots – the broken-in ones we purchased at an outfitter in Novorum when I first set foot in Occidentalia. Other bits of our darker clothing – oilcoats and undergarments, wool skirts and winter tunics, socks and rain cloaks, rain hats and night raiments – lay stacked around her. From somewhere, she had found three rucksacks and organised our clothes into small stacks.

  ‘I am not so much worried about Fuqua, if you’ll beg my pardon,’ Lupina said, ‘but making all this fit into those.’ She gestured with blunt hands at the rucksacks. ‘And have you still be able to lift them.’ She frowned.

  ‘Pack but one change of clothes. We will make do with that. Should all go well this night, we will have money enough to buy more,’ I said.

  A knock came at the door. Lupina moved fast, snatching up the rucksacks and tossing them underneath the bed as Carnelia pulled the coverlet over the guns.

  Lupina went to the door and cracked it. ‘Master?’ she said, in a deferential tone.

  A phlegmy cough sounded, and my father’s voice said, ‘I would bid my grandson good night.’

  I joined Lupina. ‘Father, he is asleep, as should you be. If he wakes now he will be cranky.’

  ‘Oh,’ Father said, crestfallen. His hair was unkempt, as were his clothes. The smell of whiskey poured off him like smoke from an incense-heavy brazier. ‘I just wanted—’

  He stopped for a moment, looking lost. ‘I just wanted to see the boy. To hold him, maybe.’

  ‘One moment, Tata,’ I said.

  I looked back into our room, holding the door so Father could not see inside. Carnelia had moved piles of clothes onto the bed to cover the guns. She looked at me with a questioning expression.

  ‘All right, Tata, you may see him. But—’ I held up a finger. ‘In the future, you’ll need to keep your visits to Fiscelion within acceptable hours.’

  He nodded his head. ‘I remember when you were just a babe. How you’d keep your mother up all night. I saw no harm in the time, tonight.’

  ‘Fiscelion takes far more after his father, then,’ I said. ‘He sleeps a’ night like a little man. Come in.’

  Father entered and peered about, squinting. It was dim in Carnelia and my adjoining rooms, the daemonlights banked low.

  ‘It’s a blasted mess in here,’ he said, and tottered over to the chair that Lupina had occupied only moments before. ‘Lupina, you’ve grown lax in my daughter’s service.’

  ‘Yes, Mister Cornelius.’ She ducked her head in the servile way that many slaves and servants have to keep away over-long scrutiny. It was an act, I knew. Women are always forced to pretend.

  ‘Do you have whiskey? No?’ He looked about, frustrated. ‘Wine, then,’ he said and held out his hand. Lupina poured him a glass and placed the glass in it.

  I went to the crib and picked up little Fiscelion, softly. His baby breath came as little chuffs of sweet air. ‘You can hold my child or that wine, but not both,’ I said.

  Father looked torn for a moment. He tossed back the wine, handed the glass back to Lupina, and then extended his arms for Fiscelion. I gave the chi
ld to him, gingerly.

  Father brought him to his chest and looked into his sleeping face.

  ‘He is chubby, is he not?’

  ‘Yes. A plumper,’ Carnelia said. ‘You should’ve seen Livia’s expression when he first latched onto her teats.’ She covered her own breasts as if protecting them. ‘O Fortuna!’ She laughed and I couldn’t tell if that was an act or not. Something about my breastfeeding always amused her.

  Father fell silent. Lupina busied herself around the room. Carnelia poured herself another glass of wine, but I noticed she watered it heavily. I looked upon my father, possibly for the last time.

  Tears began to well and then flow down his stubbled chin. One fat drop hung on the tip of his nose for a moment and then fell, plopping on Fiscelion’s face. He stirred, woke, and began making the mewling preamble to a good cry, seeing Father’s strange, male face so close to his. Sensing this, Father handed him to me and stood, his tears still standing plainly on his face.

  Never a man to be embarrassed – as a noble of Rume, he let his emotions war across his features unabashed – he said, in a voice thick with alcohol and some emotion, ‘I am glad he is home. Oh, what a man he will make. I will show him all of Rume. I will show him all of Gall and Tuetons and the Northlands—’

  ‘Yes, Father, but not tonight,’ I said. ‘It is time for a feeding and then all of us to bed. The hour is late.’

  ‘Right. Of course.’ He looked around and patted his clothes, as if forgetting something. ‘Ah,’ he said, and bending, withdrew a small clever flask that was part of his false leg. The leg I’d cut from him.

  Only Father could take dismemberment and turn it into a way to always have a drink available.

  He unscrewed the flask’s silver cap, and turning it up to his mouth, found it empty.

  ‘It seems that well is dry,’ I said. The phrase – such a Hardscrabble turn of words – gave me a quick pang of yearning for Fisk.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and turning, began to leave.

  ‘Wait, Father,’ I said. I kissed him on the cheek. Carnelia, too, came close and kissed him.

  He looked confused. ‘What did I do to deserve such lovely affections?’