God of Clocks

by Alan Campbell

  Even from here, Rachel could see that Iron Head's diversionary tactics had failed. The six giants had not deviated far from their initial paths through the settlement. They now stood still, in a half-circle around Dill, no more than two hundred yards from the water's edge.

  One of them spoke. “King Menoa wishes to negotiate a truce, Dill. His conditions are generous, and you need not join our cause. The Lord of the Maze simply wishes to avoid more bloodshed, and to prevent you from coming to harm. Your own free will makes you vulnerable to our attack. King Menoa would speak with you, if you will listen.”

  Rachel tried to shout a warning to her friend, but her voice got lost in the chaos. In the same way that the Rotsward drew its strength from linked will of Cospinol and Anchor, so Dill drew his from his own convictions. Doubting his abilities would begin to corrupt those abilities.

  Dill took a step backwards into the lake. He crouched and gently nudged one of the barges closest to him. A score of vessels now floated in the lake behind his knees.

  “These people will not be harmed,” Menoa's angel went on. “Look around you. Have the king's warriors harmed any who tried to flee? Have they hindered this evacuation? Have we used our influence over Hasp? The king desires peace, Dill. He asks only that you listen.” The automaton's gaze moved over the shoreline, and then it lifted its head again. “All will be pardoned, Dill. All differences can be resolved. We will even repair the weakness in your construction, allowing you to function without the fear of breaking limbs and corrosion. We have no desire to cause further harm or distress to anyone.”

  Dill dragged his cleaver out from underneath the Rusty Saw. The hammered metal blade was twice the size of any of the barges. Reflections of flames flashed across its scoured metal surface. He flipped it menacingly from one hand to the next.

  “Observe the scratches on that blade,” Menoa's angel said. “The weapon lacks the will to maintain its own purity of form, a flaw that is also evident within you, Dill. If you fight us you will be destroyed.”

  Rachel yelled up at him, “Don't listen to it! It's trying to plant doubt in your mind. You've already beaten one of these bastards.” From the corner of her eye she glimpsed movement, as six of Iron Head's men came running around the corner of the Rusty Saw tavern, closely followed by the captain himself. They looked bloody, beaten, and exhausted, but they ran like men with witches at their heels. As they neared the wharf, the captain spotted Rachel and Mina, and signaled wildly to them.

  She stood and spread her arms. “What is it?”

  “… back,” he cried. “Going to blow!”

  “What's going—?”

  There was a loud crackling sound, and then a series of tremendous booms. A chain of orange flashes erupted in the streets behind Menoa's giants. Tons of debris burst skywards, pounding against the armoured figures. For a heartbeat they were entirely enveloped in thick grey smoke and grit. And then a second barrage of explosions shook the air. Enormous pillars of dust spiraled over Burntwater.

  The concussion hit Rachel like a physical punch. Her ears rang. She stared in disbelief as two of the six arconites toppled backwards, arms flailing, into the mass of houses. A third giant lurched sideways and crashed into another, and both fell towards the earth. The ground shuddered under Rachel's feet.

  Iron Head skidded to a halt beside her, and adjusted the position of the hammer on his back. “Coke and saltpeter,” he explained. “Sadly not enough sulphur, but we used whatever we had.”

  A hail of grit peppered Rachel's hair, as she gazed up at the rising funnels of ash and smoke. “When did you prepare that?” she said. “That must have taken—”

  “After we heard about Coreollis, we installed the powder kegs as a precaution. Didn't particularly want to use them, mind you, but they were there if we ever had to flee… Our sappers nearly set one off under your friend Dill, and I'd have let them if he hadn't behaved so strangely.” He frowned grimly at the devastation and shook his head. “Not nearly powerful enough to do them much harm, though. These bastards are tough.”

  He was right. Despite the blasts, two of Menoa's arconites remained standing, and the four who had fallen were already rising to their feet. Soot caked their armour and their massive blades, but they otherwise seemed entirely unharmed.

  Iron Head suddenly waved his arm and shouted, “Here! Spindle!”

  Soldiers appeared all along the promenade as scores of Iron Head's men left the smoke-filled streets and retreated towards the wharfs. Grey dust now covered their faces, boots, and armour. Barely half of the men who had gone off to fight the arconites now returned.

  Spindle stood a foot shorter than his captain, and dust and soot caked every inch of him, so much so that he carried a thin grey aura of the stuff around him. He hurried over to Iron Head, smacked powder from his gloves, and sneezed. “Not enough sulphur, Captain,” he confirmed.

  “We're pulling out, fast as you can. You know what to do.”

  “Aye, sir.” Spindle turned away and began bawling orders at his men. Soldiers from other units were still moving towards the wharfs, helping wounded comrades along, then unlashing the mooring ropes of the smaller skiffs and climbing aboard. Others had converged on a pyramid of barrels stacked under a loading stanchion. They were lifting them down and rolling them across the wooden decking, spreading them out.

  Iron Head turned back to Rachel and Mina. “Can we rely on your big friend to cover our retreat?” He raised his chin towards the towering figure of Dill, still standing in the shallows. “That blade of his looks like it could do some damage.”

  “I don't think you need ask.”

  Evidently Dill had witnessed the soldier's efforts on the water's edge, for he now strode forward to meet the enemy. He stepped carefully over men and boats, and up onto the promenade, landing with a massive metallic clunk. Torrents of water sluiced from his armour and rushed across the boardwalk. His head turned slowly as he studied his six opponents.

  “Good man,” Iron Head muttered, then led Rachel and Mina towards a smaller vessel moored to the dockside. Many of the other skiffs were already moving out onto the lake. The three now crossed a gangplank onto the tiny pitching boat. The thaumaturge's little dog sniffed at the dockside one last time before padding after them.

  The voice of Menoa's leading arconite resounded through the heavens once more: “Surely you see the folly of this, Dill? Why die here in defense of this wooden town? Look at what this violence has already accomplished. The town is in ashes, yet we six remain unharmed.” The arconites had all regained their feet and once again stood motionless amongst the boiling smoke. “We have attacked no one here,” the leading angel continued, “yet you continue to reject our attempts at diplomacy. Should we crush your bones right now, or will you stand amongst us and hear King Menoa's terms?”

  Dill took two giant strides forward and buried his massive cleaver in the automaton's neck.

  The sheer force of the blow drove the massive warrior to his knees. Its armoured shins obliterated the burning remains of two houses.

  Dill smashed his knee in the automaton's face, hurling it backwards into three rows of houses. The ensuing shock wave reduced the surrounding buildings to powder. He flipped the cleaver over, turning it sideways, and swept it sidelong across the broken rooftops. The end of the blade struck another arconite, clashing against its armoured thigh with a hideous peal. Its leg buckled and it toppled too.

  Now dust and smoke obscured the battle. Amidst this turmoil Rachel caught glimpses of vast wings moving, monstrous shadows, and geysers of spinning debris. She heard thunderous booms and gut-wrenching metallic bangs, as Iron Head's men worked the oars and their little boat withdrew further into the mist.

  “He can't beat them,” Rachel muttered.

  Iron Head raised his head from the tiller. “What was that?”

  “Menoa's warriors can't be destroyed,” she said. “They lack minds of their own, and so they are incapable of losing conviction in their own invincibility.
But Dill is different.” She gazed back into the fog. “He can fail if he loses faith in himself.”

  “Just like any other soldier,” the captain replied. “Confidence is good armour.” Then he grunted. “Pandemerian steel is better, of course, but who can afford it, eh?”

  Rachel sat on a creaking bench between two militiamen with her arms wrapped around her knees. Mina's plan had fallen to pieces. Dill was supposed to have attacked the gates of Heaven, thereby provoking the goddess Ayen to destroy all of the arconites. Yet now they had no choice but to abandon him here and hope he bought them enough time to reach Sabor's castle. Everything now rested on the god of clocks.

  How long could Dill keep fighting?

  The town militia heaved at their oars, and the flotilla of skiffs moved out into deeper waters towards the waiting coke barges. Soldiers aboard these larger vessels were busy stoking the air-engine furnaces with shovelfuls of fuel, and the deck-mounted flywheels spun faster as the temperature differential increased. Black smoke trickled from tall funnels and looped over the heads of the women and children who squatted upon the loaded decks. Amidst the rasp and scrape of the militiamen's shovels and the hum of the flywheels, the refugees watched in silence as the ashes rose from their shattered homes.

  Behind her, Rachel could see nothing now but Mina's sorcerous fog. The boats drifted in their own grey world that seemed suddenly so far from land. Even the crash of battle from the lakeshore sounded muted and dreamlike.

  As the two fleets rendezvoused, skiffs and barges jostled in the cold waters under a canopy of coke fumes. Wet lines were thrown and snatched from the air and tied off. Tamping engines rattled decks and planking.

  Iron Head's men helped some of the refugees from the more crowded vessels clamber across to the smaller craft, amongst them Rosella and her husband, Abner. In the fibrous gloom Rachel spotted scores of Oran's men and the Rusty Saw whores seated together upon other barges, and she gave silent thanks to the Burntwater troops for keeping the woodsmen away from the innkeeper and his wife.

  Within moments the motored barges had attained full power, their air engines thrumming jauntily as they altered course. Iron Head's men strained over their oarlocks and struck a new path around the flanks of the larger boats. The whole clutter of vessels maneuvered into a surprisingly regular formation, and then set out across the lake.

  The air stirred, as an unseen object whoomphed through the mists overhead. Rachel heard it splash into the lake in front of them. Low waves rolled out of the grey distance and set the boats pitching.

  Calls rebounded between the leading barges.

  “What was that?”

  “Looked like a chunk of the sea wall.”

  “You see anything else?”

  “Nothing.”

  Silence descended. The men bent to their oars again. For a long time they continued in this manner: the vague dark shapes of the barges like bruises concealed under veils of grey, the steadily rattling engines and the rasp of shovels, the knock of wood on wood and the constant slosh of the lake water. Lines strung between the vessels tightened and groaned. Hulls shifted to compensate.

  In time the noise of battle faded behind them.

  A man shouted up ahead, his voice strangely calm and un concerned: “Hericans … Hoy! Who's that? We're steaming down on you.”

  Rachel raised her chin from her knees and looked over at Iron Head for explanation.

  The captain shrugged, causing the shaft of his hammer to rise and fall behind his back. “Fishermen from across the lake,” he said. “I'd be surprised if they've come to help. These Hericans don't interfere with us much, beyond occasional trade.”

  “Friendly sorts?”

  “Decent enough folks, but not the sort to take up arms and rush into a scrap. Not unless it's over fishing rights.” He stood at the tiller and peered into the gloom. “And probably not even then…”

  But then the voice ahead called back again. “Captain, there's something strange here.”

  “What do you see, man?”

  “Rafts.”

  And then Rachel saw them, too, as first one, then two of the simple craft drifted into view. They were indeed rafts, constructed of nothing more than lashed-together logs, and floating low in the water. Both were unmanned, each empty but for a thickly smoking cauldron fixed squarely to its center. Tar or some other additive had been applied to these pot fires, for they emitted foul black vapours.

  Basilis gave a low growl. Mina cuddled the tiny dog to her chest.

  “Another three to port,” yelled the unseen sailor. “These ones have fires burning on sheet tin. And two more ahead, nor'west if I'm reckoning right.”

  “A trap?” Rachel asked.

  Iron Head frowned. “Looks more like a diversion. You'd assume the Hericans are trying to aid our flight by confounding our pursuers. You'd think that, if you didn't know Hericans.” His frown deepened. “Then again, they're not the sort to cause trouble, either.”

  The unseen sailor called out into the fog again. “Hoy! You there! Make yourself known.” There was a pause, and then he shouted. “Captain, it's a woman. She's coming over.”

  “What kind of vessel?”

  “Rowboat.”

  An interminably long pause followed, before the sailor raised his voice again. “Captain, she wants to speak to Rachel Hael.”

  Me? Rachel straightened in her seat. No one could possibly know she was here. She strained her eyes, trying to discern something in the mist. Nothing but vague shapes.

  “Send her over,” Iron Head called back.

  They waited another moment. Eventually the sailor answered, and this time his voice sounded more relaxed. “She's just one of Miss Hael's family, Captain.”

  Grinning, Iron Head turned to Rachel and whispered, “I have a confession to make, Miss Hael. I've been expecting this. Your sister's here.”

  Rachel just stared at him. “I don't have a sister,” she said. “My family is all dead.” She waved her hands in frustration. “I never had a sister. Don't trust this woman, Captain. She is not who she claims to be.”

  The captain chuckled. “I have every reason to believe she is exactly who she claims to be,” he said. “Her presence here is a very good omen for all of us. You, Miss Hael, are about to meet someone who has walked through the labyrinth of time.” He pointed ahead. “She's approaching. You will soon see for yourself.”

  The impostor who claimed to be the assassin's sister was using an oar to push her tiny boat away from one of the barges up ahead. She nudged her vessel into open water, altered course, and then rowed quickly towards them. She was facing away, bent over the oars, but wore leather armour strikingly similar to Rachel's own. Three burner rafts drifted in the fog behind her, disgorging clouds of inky fumes.

  Finally the impostor's boat knocked against the bow of their skiff. Iron Head moved forward, extended a hand, and helped her aboard.

  The woman turned to face Rachel.

  And Rachel's heart froze.

  A moment passed in which nobody spoke.

  “I can see the resemblance,” Mina said.

  Rachel couldn't speak. She was staring into a face she knew intimately. The woman who had claimed to be her sister could easily have been Rachel's identical twin: the shocking green eyes, the gaunt face, the fair hair tied back so severely. The Spine leathers were not just similar, but practically indistinguishable from Rachel's own. A partially healed wound traced a line above the woman's ear—exactly matching the path Abner's bullet had scoured through Rachel's flesh. Even the twin's jaw was swollen, still bruised from the punch Hasp had delivered.

  “You were right about Sabor, Rachel,” Mina said. “Clearly he's been meddling in Time. This woman is you …. returned to us from the future.”

  Rachel could spot only one difference between herself and this mirror-image woman. The twin had an extra bruise—a soft yellow smudge under her left eye. That single blemish was the only thing that differentiated them; without it, a stranger might n
ever manage to tell the two apart.

  “You're me?” she asked, incredulously. “A future me?”

  The twin narrowed her eyes. “Hardly,” she said. “I'm the original. You, little sis, are the earlier version of me. About ten hours earlier to be exact. I stood where you are now and said exactly the same things you are about to say.”

  “But this can't be…”

  “Yes, that's more or less what I said.”

  Rachel's thoughts tumbled wildly. “No… I won't… You can't be me. You're an impostor, a fraud. The bruise on your face…”

  The twin snorted. “They told me it was necessary to help me understand. It's called a paradox, and this is how it happened.” And then she lashed out a fist and punched Rachel hard under the left eye.

  9

  IN THE CASTLE OF THE

  GOD OF CLOCKS

  The rafts had been built with the help of the Hericans, the future Rachel explained, to act as a distraction and so confuse their arconite pursuers. Iron Head had apparently given this alternate Rachel the idea, after he'd first seen the craft used here today. Not that she could explain that paradox, either.

  “Sabor's castle bends logic,” she said. “He claims it allows temporally distinct versions of a person to exist in the same moment.” Then she sighed. “I don't completely understand it, but Sabor says it has something to do with collapsing universes. You can ask him yourself shortly.”

  “We're that close?” Rachel asked.

  “It's not far from the shore, sis.” She pointed.

  A beach of metallic shingle had appeared out of the fog. Conifers crowded the bank behind it, tightly spaced and so dense as to seem impenetrable, while white boles of some long-dead deciduous variety—perhaps the remains of an earlier forest—bent over the silver-grey grass of a bank rising abruptly behind the beach. After a moment Rachel perceived a track partially hidden by this sun-bleached wicker. It divided the pine forest as precisely as a knife cut.