The Traitor and the Thief

by Gareth Ward

  The mekanika drew level and Sin heard the busy whirr of cogs emanating from below its dulled metal skin. Its head turned, red rays reaching into the shadows. Sin held his breath.

  A dizziness overwhelmed him as the mekanika looked away and it continued along the path. He bent double, his stomach churning and his mouth dry. What was he doing here? He should climb back to his room and be done with it. That was the smart thing to do. He reached up for a handhold, tempted by the sanctuary of the open window. The Fixer’s voice played in his head, taunting him: A few days of regular meals and a warm bed and you’ve gone soft as butter. Sin clenched his fists, took a deep breath then darted across the path into the cover of the gardens.

  He slunk through the grounds, tormented by an uneasy feeling that itched the back of his neck. Under the Fixer’s direction, nefarious nocturnal activity had become almost routine and this should be a walk in the park, yet something had him on edge. Sure, the close call with the mekanika had spooked him, but in the past he’d had dust-ups with the Sheriffs and it had never left him feeling like this. He ducked into shrubbery and settled between two bushes. There was no rush. He had all night and he needed to trust his instincts. Calming his breathing, he opened his mouth, swallowed, and listened to the noises of the night.

  Leaves rustled and the sound of feet padding on grass drew near. Sin tensed, catching a flash of movement between the bushes. Costumed in a floral pink puffer dress, Zonda moved through the grounds in a caricature of creeping. Was she following him? He could have sworn he’d detected her aroma of strawberries in the arena by the fallen weapon. Whatever she was up to she was going to get them both caught, or even killed.

  “Zon, over here,” he hissed.

  She froze, surprised, then tiptoed towards him. It was like watching the world’s least stealthy meringue. He dragged her into the bushes. “What the blazes are you doing?” he whispered.

  Zonda placed her hand on his arm. “I’m stopping you leaving.”

  Sin tilted his head. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Oh. What the blazingeroo are you doing?”

  “I can’t explain now.”

  Zonda stared at him like an expectant puppy. “I can come with you and help.”

  This was turning into a joke, only there was nothing funny about being diced by a mekanika or thrown out of COG. “No. I need you to stay here and … keep watch. It’s very important. Can you do that?”

  “Absolutamon. I shall be like the watchiest of watch-dogs,” said Zonda, turning her head from side to side.

  Sin crept into the formal garden and flowed along the hedge, silent as a shadow. Drifting into the alcove, he sunk to his knees and rolled onto his back. The underside of the arbour seat was dark, but pinned to the slats the pristine white envelope with its wax seal was clear enough. He removed it and eased back one edge of the flap, careful not to break the embossed shield of the wax seal. Through the gap he spied several sheets of paper, of which the topmost one contained some sort of complex diagram. He’d been right: Lilith was up to something, but what? Back in his room he should be able to remove the seal intact with a hot knife and examine the contents before resealing it. Delicate work, but he’d done it many times before, intercepting sensitive mail for the Fixer. He slid the letter into his jacket pocket and eased away from the bench.

  Something jarred his senses and his head jerked up. The splashing of the fountain, which acted as the garden’s centrepiece, had quietened. It was a small detail and could have been due to a gust of wind, or drop in water pressure, but experience offered a more likely explanation. Someone, or something, had walked in front of it, blocking the sound’s path.

  Sin slithered on his belly across the grass to a low box hedge and peered cautiously over the privet leaves. Adrenaline spiked his veins and cold fear gripped him for the second time that evening. Noir stood at the fountain, his raggedy cloak wrapped around him. From inside his top hat he removed a sheet of paper. Sin stifled a gasp. It was from one of his exams, the one with the drawing of the Conserva-Observatory.

  The magician clicked his fingers and a crackling ball of fire appeared in his hand. He held the paper above it, transfixed as it burned to ash within the flickering flame.

  Using the low hedge as cover, Sin snaked away from the fountain. The man terrified him; he exuded an aura of evil. A little way off an alarm sounded, the single deep note repeating over and over. Zonda screamed and Sin leaped to his feet and sprinted. Fists clenched, he pounded through the gardens as all around more alarms blared.

  A mekanika guard stomped through the bushes slashing plants with its sword. Zonda crawled from the undergrowth, her dress ripped, a livid cut on her forearm. The mekanika’s eyes pulsed, throbbing in time with the alarm note resonating from its torso. It stepped over Zonda, blade raised, ready to strike.

  Arms outstretched, Sin barrelled into the metal beast, and boy and machine crashed to the grass. The mekanika thrashed wildly, like an upturned bug, unable to right itself. Sin rolled away, dodging the jagged blade and pushed himself to his feet. He gripped Zonda under the arms and hauled her upright. “You hurt?”

  “My dress is ruined. This is not as fun as I thought.”

  “We need to gap it. Follow me.”

  Zonda resisted his pull. “No, you follow me.” She guided him from the grass and onto a narrow flagstone path that lead away from the palace.

  The alarms, nearer now, reverberated with a deep bass tone that seemed to resonate through his body. Sin glanced back at the palace. “You sure about this?”

  “Definoso.”

  The path dipped sharply below ground level, the earth retained by brick walls. Curving back on itself, the culvert ended at a sturdy wood door. Zonda heaved the door open and they stepped inside. The air was bitterly cold. Large slabs of ice rested on thick stone shelves around the walls. Zonda turned a brassanium dial and chemlamps in the low-arched ceiling came to life.

  “What is this place?” asked Sin, his breath forming vapour clouds.

  “It’s the palace’s icehouse.” Zonda pulled the door closed and locked it. “We can get to the kitchens from here.”

  “How did you know about it?”

  Maybe it was the chill temperature but the colour seemed to drain from Zonda’s face.

  “Err … my father showed me around. The palace used to be open to visitors.”

  “You never–”

  “We can talk tomorrow. We need to get back to our rooms in case there’s a bed check.”

  * * *

  Sin closed his bedroom door and pressed his back against the woodwork. A long sigh escaped his lips. It had been one hell of a day. He patted his jacket, checking Lilith’s envelope was still tucked inside. Turning the light dial, he let a dim glow fill the room. His stomach lurched and he inhaled sharply. A voodoo doll and battered top hat decorated with red ribbon rested on his bed. The desk chair slowly rotated. “Take a seat,” rasped Noir.

  The magician’s presence seemed to suck all of Sin’s strength. His knees gave way and he slid to the floor. He’d nearly died three times today, possibly more, but none of those experiences held a candle to the terror now racking his body. How did Noir trigger this senseless fear and why did he seem powerless to fight it?

  Noir smiled; it contained no warmth. He held out his hand, the claw-like fingernails long and yellowed. “You have something of mine.”

  Sin didn’t move. He couldn’t; fear paralysed him. Anger flared in the man’s eyes, mistaking inaction for insolence. Fire sprung from Noir’s fingers. “Make no bones, boy. I could take it from you and extinguish you and your lady friend in an instant.” He clicked his fingers and the flame died. “However, I’d rather we were friends. You hand over the envelope and vow to tell nobody on pain of a most horrible death and we can forget about your little indiscretion.”

  Sin’s palms tingled with a cold sweat and his heart thumped loudly in his ears. It made no sense. He was used to pushing his fear down, locking it away, but someh
ow Noir held all the keys to releasing it.

  He withdrew the envelope with trembling fingers. The man seized Sin’s wrist, his skin rough as dead leaves. He plucked the letter from Sin’s grasp and vanished it into his jacket. “Now for the vow.” He scooped up his hat and removed the voodoo doll, placing it on Sin’s palm. “Do you swear by the Lord of the Crossroad, Loa of the Dead, the vengeful Baron Samedi, that this shall be a secret well kept?”

  The tiny straw doll rose upright, seemingly of its own accord.

  Sin swallowed, his mouth dry, terror squeezing his heart. “I swear.”

  CHAPTER 15

  DISAPPEARING ACT

  A polished oak table, big enough to seat fifty, ran the length of the dining room. Students occupied one end, tutors the other, with the intervening space left empty, like an educational de-militarised zone. Giant gilt-framed portraits of COG members, past and present, adorned the walls. Sin gazed unseeing at a vivid oil painting of a dashing leather-clad aviatrix. A flight pistol in one hand, cutlass in the other, she battled Teutonian skytroopers aboard a burning airship.

  “Mother trained her, you know,” said Velvet from two chairs down the table.

  “What?” said Sin, pulled from his thoughts.

  Velvet gestured to the picture. “Captain Felicity Hawk. She’s the youngest sky sailor ever to command her own aerostat. Mother wants her to join the Committee.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t really looking,” said Sin and returned to pushing a sausage around his plate. For the first time since his arrival at the palace, the food held little appeal. He’d woken with dread banding his chest, as if Noir’s evil essence still haunted his room. The sense of malevolent unease had clung to him through his early morning classes, sapping his concentration. Now with Zonda not showing for breakfast, Sin worried that Noir had done something terrible to reinforce their deal. If all the magician wanted was his silence, then there were more terminal ways to ensure it. Sin was no stranger to the way blackmail worked; the Fixer had used it often enough against Coxford’s Sheriffs and magistrates. You started with something simple, implying that would be the end of it, then asked for a bit more, slowly drawing the victim in. Noir would ask for more favours, and with each one, the magician’s hooks would sink deeper.

  Three mushrooms sat on Sin’s plate, joined by a pool of melted butter. Velvet, Lilith and Noir; they were all linked, like a chain. Noir terrified him, Lilith intimidated him and Velvet – well, Velvet was the weak link. She may not be directly involved in their schemes, but she was Lilith’s daughter. If he could find some dirt on Velvet, maybe he could blackmail Lilith into forcing Noir to leave him alone.

  Skewering a mushroom with his fork, he smiled for the first time that morning.

  * * *

  The green room was painted the colour of summer grass and patterned with a gold bamboo motif. Glossy lacquered Chinasian cabinets hugged the walls, displaying all manner of unusual bladed weapons. From the ceiling hung paper lanterns in a multitude of shapes and sizes.

  The special assembly hadn’t been timetabled and an anxious feeling nagged at Sin. Was his nocturnal escapade the assembly’s cause? Had Noir betrayed him? He’d be gutted if he was to be thrown out of COG now. Stopping the war still seemed beyond him but he enjoyed the lessons and he’d made friends, or one friend at least. His eyes sought out Zonda who was waiting in one of the angular teak chairs, and some of his unease lifted. She looked bleary eyed and had a pristine gauze bandage wrapped around her right forearm, but she welcomed him with a smile.

  “Well, that was a spifferooney adventure.”

  Sin took her hand and examined the dressing. “Are you okay?”

  “It was deeper than I thought. I had to go to sick bay and get it biobonded.”

  “Biobond?”

  “It’s the same stuff they used on your shoulder. It sort of glues wounds back together and speeds healing. When Nimrod was done with breaking bodies he turned his mind to fixing them. It’s another part of his penance, I guess.”

  “Is there anything the man didn’t invent?”

  “He didn’t invent the camera-nocturna.”

  Sin raised his eyebrows in question.

  “It’s like a normal camera,” said Zonda, “except it uses chemicals that react to a different wavelength of light so it can take nocturnagraphs at night.”

  “Oh. Who invented that?”

  “I did. Although it doesn’t actually exist. I’ve drawn the plans and worked out the chemical formulas. I’m certain it would work. It’s just, how would a girl build such a thing?”

  “In detention,” whispered Sin to himself. Gears in his mind whirred. Could he lure Velvet into the grounds at night – breaking a Cast-Iron Rule – and take a nocturnagraph that might give him the leverage he needed to get Noir off his back? Zonda would have to build the camera first, but he was sure Nimrod would help. Then all he had to do was draw Velvet into the trap.

  Sin reached into his jacket and pulled out a waxed paper package wrapped in string. “Bacon and egg banjo. You missed breakfast.”

  Zonda seized the package. “Oh, I could kiss you.”

  Sin froze, but as Zonda eagerly opened the gift it was clear she had no intention of doing so and he dropped onto the chair next to her.

  Major C marched to the front of the room, reflections of the coloured lanterns sparkling from his brassanium mekaniks. Behind him skulked Noir. The Major’s gaze tracked over the candidates, settling on Zonda. “The Cast-Iron Rule banning you from the grounds at night exists to protect you. The estate is patrolled by the watchmek who cannot differentiate friend or foe and will attack on sight.” In a series of small clicks, the Major’s head turned so he looked directly at Sin. “If you were involved in last night’s disturbance, now is the time to confess and accept the consequences.”

  Sin had no intention of fronting up, so the almost imperceivable shake of Noir’s head as he glared pointedly at Sin was a wasted gesture. Zonda fidgeted in her chair. Sin gripped her bandaged arm and squeezed. She squeaked in pain but the distraction appeared to push any thought of confessing from her mind.

  The Major straightened and his mekaniks clunked. “Very well. Combat lessons are cancelled due to an issue in the boiler room. However, we cannot afford any let up in your training so Staff Noir has agreed to bring forward your introduction to magic.”

  Major C left the room as an excited buzz ran through the candidates. Noir removed his cloak. “What is magic?” he whispered.

  Zonda half raised her arm. Noir ignored her and stuck out his tongue, which appeared to be covered with a blue flame. Exhaling, a stream of fire shot into the air, then with a click of his jaw, he sent a smoke ring drifting towards the ceiling. “Magic is science we don’t understand yet.” He coughed and hacked a glob of burning phlegm onto the floor. “Can I control the elements with secret dark forces or was that merely chemical trickery courtesy of Nimrod Barm?” He stamped on the flaming gob, his heavy leather boot extinguishing the fire. “I’ll let you decide. Perhaps the more pertinent question is: does it matter either way?”

  He pulled up a chair and with an exaggerated sweep of his arm gestured towards it. “COG Von Darque, please.”

  Velvet paraded to the front of the class. She wore a byzantium dress that cascaded in ruffles from her hips to her ankles. Neatly arranging her skirt, she perched on the chair, her feet flat on the floor, her back straight. She glanced sideways at Sin and the corners of her mouth turned upwards. Noir pulled a silk sheet the size of a tablecloth from his hat and covered Velvet. “Watch,” he said and threw his hat in the air. It spun end over end then exploded in a shower of sparks. Noir whisked the sheet away and discarded it on the floor. Velvet was gone. Only her dress remained, draped over the chair. Noir clapped his hands together. “Remember, we all dread that which seems inevitable, but the war can be stopped. I will teach you the craft of magicians and mesmerists, sleight of hand and sleight of mind, the art of hypnosis, misdirection and illusion so that you can lie, c
heat and steal as COG directs.”

  Lying, cheating and stealing. It was the only life Sin had known since running from the orphanage. He’d not thought about that day for years, but now the memory played bright in his mind, as if somehow triggered by Noir. It had been a Friday during penance. The children stood with their hands out waiting for Sister Alldread to deliver cleansing punishment. She was known to the orphans as the witch with the biter and had a wiry strength that belied her slight build. With a look of fervent ecstasy, she’d brought the biter down on Sin’s palm and for the first time ever, time had slowed. The pain bit deep and prolonged and in that instant, Sin’s fingers wrapped around the rattan cane and yanked it from the sister’s grip. As the orphans cheered, he snapped her cherished biter and threw the pieces back at her. Then he ran from the orphanage and into a life of crime.

  Sin jolted from the memory as Noir clapped his hands again and whispered, “Ta-da.”

  The doors opened to reveal Velvet. She now wore a short skirt, striped leggings and a suede bodice. Sin watched as she strutted back to her seat. The disappearance had been quite impossible, yet Sin had witnessed it with his own eyes. He felt a pain in his leg as Zonda pinched him. “You’re staring.”

  “I was wondering how Noir did it.”

  “Well wonder with your mouth closed and your eyes elsewhere.”

  Noir reached into the air and a large coin materialised at his fingertips. “We are creatures of reason.” He placed the coin in his palm and curled his fingers over it, making a fist. “Show us point A and point B and we will erroneously conclude point C.” He opened his hand to reveal the coin had vanished. “We are also creatures of prejudice.” He grabbed Sin’s hand and squeezed it closed into a fist. “Show us point A and point C and our prejudices will fill in point B.” He motioned for Sin to open his hand. Tentatively, Sin uncurled his fingers. A yellowed note covered in faded scrawl rested on his palm. Atop the note lay a length of broken rattan cane.